Operation Save Neverland
by ILoveLukeC
Summary: When Felix cheats his way to the title of the Ruler of Neverland, Peter is forced to side with his former foes - Henry's family. The Civil War tears apart the once safe haven for the Boys and soon, they are forced to pick a side. What Peter needs is faith, trust and Pixie Dust to win this war - and unfortunately, he's in short supply of all of them. Panry, one-sided Felix/Peter
1. Bad Form, Coward

_**Prologue**_

_"All are keeping a sharp look-out in front, but none suspects that the danger may be creeping up from behind." -Peter Pan_

Peter sighed, after another hard day's work at trying to control the blasted Sirens. Peter was sure they had gotten far more irritating lately; trying to drown his Boys after they'd taunted them was fine, but trying to drown _him _for telling them they were out of tune was downright dastardly.

Peter pulled a boot from his left foot, wrinkling his nose distastefully as sea water flooded from his shoe and plopped into a large puddle inches from his bare foot. He shook the boot, trying to get the most of the water out of it. When he was satisfied, he stuck his bare foot back into the boot and retucked his pants into it.

There was a noise to Peter's right - the swish of a leaf palm, the snap of a broken branch. Peter turned his head swiftly and was greeted by his second-in command, hooded as usual; the only distinctive fact that it was Felix and not any other Lost Boy was the long nose poking from the shadow casted from his cowl.

Peter inclined his head, turning on his rock to face Felix. He brought up a leg against the boulder and raised an eyebrow, wrapping his arm around his leg so that it bent at the elbow. Peter squinted in the lack of light from the canopy of treetops above; Felix stayed hidden behind his hood, only his lips and nose an identifying factor. "Felix," Peter said, his boots crinkling as he pushed himself up higher to get a better look at his second-in command. "Is everything alright?"

Felix set his chest, his arm still hidden beneath the thick fabric. His lips, Peter could see, were set in a slight line. "Everything will be," Felix said quietly.

Peter hadn't heard him; he was far too busy pushing himself from his rock. His shoes slapped against the puddle of sea water just as the words escaped Felix's lips. "What was that?" Peter asked, turning his head slightly. His silhouette was outlined by the rays of moonlight that highlighted the profile of his hair and his eyelashes, his eyebrows, the bridge of his nose and his lips, the flick of his tongue over them.

Felix swallowed; the cool ridged hilt against his sweaty palm seemed to suddenly hit him. He was really going to do this. He was really going to harm Peter; he was going to cut away Pan for himself. _It's for the better of Neverland, _his mind reassured, _it's what Pan would've wanted, someone just as strong and powerful to take his place once he'd grown soft._

Felix felt unsure, though. He wanted power, defiantly - but did he really have to _cut _Peter? That seemed barbaric, demonic. Peter had taught him that he wasn't such a thing - he was a boy, Lost, sure, but who wasn't? There was nothing wrong with him. He had enough potential to become Peter's second-in command, to gain his trust when Peter had wanted nothing more than to never trust anyone again. He didn't want to hurt Peter.

Pan was a different person entirely. It didn't matter if the two were attached - _Pan _was the one Felix had a bone to pick with. He was the one Felix really wanted, wasn't he? He wanted the power Pan had, the magic - and if Pan dragged Peter with him, then so be it.

Peter was unnerved by the silence of his second-in command. Peter turned, his eyebrows knitting together, concern glistening in his eyes. "Felix. Is everything okay?" Peter turned completely to face him and Felix's lips twitched grimly, Peter caught the movement with his quick eyes. He took a step forward, panic constricting his lungs. "They haven't come, have they? Where's Hen - ?"

A laugh bubbled from deep within Felix's throat, a bitter and twisted laugh. "You just won't stay down, will you, Peter?"

Peter titled his head to the side, confusion reflecting in highlighted sections of his cheeks and nose, his parted lips and his dipped eyebrows. "Felix, _what _are you - "

Felix allowed his impulses to take over; his cloak billowed about him as he rushed forward. Peter hadn't expected Felix to leap for him; granted, he'd expected him to turn around so that he could follow him or for him to at least finish his sentence. Instead, Felix had Peter against the cold rock, practically crushing his tailbone with the force of the boy's body against his own. Felix's knee was between Peter's legs; he brought up his leg in a swift upward motion and as Peter let out a cry, Felix cut him off with a kiss.

It wasn't an ordinary kiss, not soft and gentle and worth-while. It was cold and cruel and hungry, hungry for the taste of Peter's mouth, of his power; Felix could feel the magic even in the boy's delectable tongue and the pained moan smothered by Felix's lips and his gnashing white teeth.

Peter tried to push his second-in command away but the second Felix felt Peter's resistance, he changed tactics. The dagger was still in his tightly clenched fingers, but he didn't want to result to that - not yet. He instead grabbed one of Peter's hands, which had been clawing furiously at Felix's chest, and twisted it back until he felt a whimper leave Peter's lips, still smashed to his own.

Felix still clutched Peter's hand, his fingers forcing Peter's to intertwine. Felix allowed an inch between their lips; he examined Peter's face, the blood that flowed from his cut mouth, the distrust in his wide eyes. Felix blinked, a thought coming to his mind - he could hear Peter's voice jeering at him - _Bad form, Felix, haven't I taught you better than that?_

Felix's nostrils flared; his hood had fallen away and the scar on his face seemed to slice his face diagonally in two. The blood of Peter's shone ripe-red on Felix's demonic smirk; his tongue flicked and he swallowed the taste of Peter's pain, his dangerously wide grin overcoming his face, his scar seeming to crack it even more. He came in close to Peter's neck, seeing one of his veins bulge. He let his warm breath, hot with the scent of Peter's blood, lick against Peter's ear. Felix pulled up the knife, his elbow lifting his cloak with it.

"I'm sorry, Peter," Felix said, "but the Boys deserve a _real _Ruler, one who hasn't grown soft, _weak_. This is what you would've wanted. Don't worry; I won't kill you, Peter. I'm killing Pan, then we can become one. You and I."

Peter caught sight of a tip of metal glinting in the moonlight as Felix lifted his arm higher. Peter finally overcame his shock. He tried to quickly think of a way out of this; he immediately did what he thought. He disappeared from Felix's lusty grip until he was several feet away, trying to run despite the pain throbbing between his legs and the gash gushing from his lip.

Felix blinked for a moment; suddenly, Peter wasn't there. His hand that had been intertwined with his slapped against the rock, as did his knees. Anger contorted his face as he bared the knife out; the moonlight highlighted the dripping oily tip. Felix wasn't going to let Pan get away so soon. The sick smirk grew in the malevolent lighting; why, this was a game, just as Peter said. And Felix couldn't let a cheater such as Pan _win_, now could he? That was bad form, horrible form, even. It was unacceptable. A howl much like Peter's own crow resounded in the woods from Felix's throat; surely the Boys and the Sirens would hear. "Time to play," Felix said, chuckling as he twirled the knife by the hilt.

...

Peter's head whipped back at the sound. It was defiantly Felix, he was sure of it. His lip stung at the mention of the betrayal, still fresh and just as painful, even if Peter was having a hard time understanding Felix's rashness. He heard Felix emit several high howls - a long, a short, a long. An SOS signal - for whom, Peter could only guess.

Peter quickened his step, disappearing mid-leap to appear several feet away. He did this several times until he had reached the outskirts of his camp - which was staked out by several boys with bows and arrows and knives, thick clubs and sharpened spears. Peter's breath caught in his throat and he cursed quietly - how long had Felix been planning an ambush against him?

"Quite a while now, actually," Felix spoke behind him, near his ear. Peter whirled around; he knew the movement had the staked Boys on guard now as he could hear their bowstrings being pulled taunt as he had taught them, their swords bite the air in that cursed twirl he had precariously gifted them and the clubs hit palms threateningly behind him. He could hear dirt crunch beneath their worn shoes. "Even before Henry came to Neverland, really; you were lacking even then, Peter, but this boy ... He was the last straw."

Felix came closer, the blood of betrayal still glinting on his lips. He spread his hands and looked at Peter; at this distance, Peter could see the malevolent glint in his demonic eyes. He couldn't even see the colour in them anymore. Felix was more than Lost - he was Mad.

"You were lacking _power_," Felix spoke, his voice low. "You were lacking _belief. _I knew you were already low on it - it's been quite obvious how much this island depends on magic since its depletion. If I were Ruler of Neverland, this depletion never would've happened. I would've kept a tight enough hold - I would've kept belief circulating without the use of _pipes_, Pan, without the use of _cheating._"

Peter's lip curled up in a snarl; it only caused more blood to flow from his bitten mouth. "I do _not _cheat nor have I _ever,_" Peter managed around the blood staining his white teeth.

Felix laughed, another cutthroat sound. "Your pipes are a cheater's tools, Pan; just as your magic is."

Peter's jaw tightened and his bloody lips pursed. Felix smiled before saying, "You are a cheater, Pan. You're using us - playing us like your games you like so much. I won't stand for it any longer - _Boys!_"

The staked Boys leapt for Peter, but he wasn't there. He was already in the center of the camp, lit only by the crackling hearth as he ran to where Henry lay, sleeping with his back to the fire. Peter dropped down beside him and shook his shoulder violently. "Henry, Henry, wake up, please," Peter, whispered frantically, shoving the boy harder. "Henry, we need to go _now _- "

Henry rolled over, squinting his bleary eyes at Peter. "What's going on - ?"

"I'll explain on the way," Peter said, kneeling up slightly to pull Henry up into his arms, bridal-style. He then stood straight and glanced quickly over his shoulder. "We need to go find your family, keep you safe - "

The whiz of an arrow slicing through the air met Peter's ears seconds before he felt it; the arrow tip embedded itself in his shoulder and he winced, his body bending over Henry's in an act to further protect him from the sudden onslaught of arrows and knives being thrown from behind him.

The rest of the Boys were awakening now - Peter could tell by the howls of pain as innocent lads were hit with arrows meant for him, for clubs meant for his bruising and knives meant for his heart. Henry's eyes had widened and he was shouting in surprise, clutching fistfuls of Peter's vest in his white-knuckled hands as Peter took off running, out of his camp, away from his Boys, away from his family.

Peter hesitated when he got to the outskirts; he looked back over his shoulder and could see a story played out by all of the shadows - the beating of innocent Boys who had always stood by Peter, the howling of deranged lads and the smirking figure of Felix standing among them, a hand raised in a salute to Peter as he mouthed three words: "_Bad form, coward._"

The arrow to his side was the only thing that made him turn and run, this time without looking back. He ran fast between periods where he would disappear with Henry still in his arms; he could feel his power diminishing, himself weakening with each painful breath but he couldn't stop now, not until he had Henry somewhere safe, somewhere he would be okay...

When Peter finally collapsed to his knees and Henry was suddenly no longer in his arms, Peter took his first full breath - only to have it caught in his throat as Henry's family, whom Peter had deliberately ran to, came from the foliage of the trees, each armed and angry.

Peter swallowed his breath, his Adam's apple bobbing painfully against the sword blade digging a fine scarlet line into his throat by none other than Prince Charming. Peter didn't even have the energy to smirk up at Henry's steely-eyed grandfather; in fact, in that moment, Peter's eyes watered and he shouted incredulously, "Are you lot completely thick?! We need to hide, _now_! You can threaten me later, alright, but I'd have to live till then!"

The rest of Henry's family, whom had been engrossed in hugging the boy, turned at the sound of Peter's cracked voice, the broken stalagmites of tone that came from the boy's chest, from the back of his throat, from the back of his very soul - the soul of the good boy who only wanted to save other children like him from the hardships of growing up.

Peter tried to hold back the emotion struggling to leak down his cheeks, his lips bleeding furiously down his chin as he tried to bite down his threatening sobs. He wouldn't cry - not in front of these _adults. _Instead, he placed a trembling finger against the sharp blade that had begun to slightly pull back from his throat as Charming's eyes grew soft; he pushed it away gently, feeling the humid air assualt the cut against his throat. He felt all the pain from earlier - poison currently leaked from his side, staining his vest a slick blackened red; an arrow shaft poked from his left shoulder, the tip embedded deep in his skin. The worst pain of all, however, was the pain of betrayal, still visable on Peter's lips, in his bruised tailbone, in his hand that hit him with shocks of jagged pain as his bones clinked together - his chest felt constricted as he tried to wrap his head around what Felix had done to him and _why._

Henry was still wrapped in a side hug by both of his mothers, squished in between them; their faces weren't focused on him this time, but the broken boy that they had earlier pinned an enemy. Regina's bitterness still shone in her slight movements, like the twitch of the scar on her pursed lips or the dip of her eyebrows; but Emma's lips were parted to reveal her teeth as she watched Peter struggle to contain his emotions. In their eyes, Henry knew they were seeing himself in Peter; that's all he was, wasn't it? He was just a kid that didn't deserve what was happening - although, Henry wasn't in his right mind to understand what _had _happened nor was Peter.

Peter's body shook as he said again, "We need to go before he comes. If he does, none of you will be able to go home. I won't be able to give permission for your leave ... not if I'm not Leader anymore."

Hook stepped forward, staring in downright confusion at the demon before him. He didn't seem like a demon now - he seemed more like a battered boy. Hook couldn't wrap his head around that; Pan wasn't one to look this _weak _especially in front of his enemies - unless ... they weren't enemies anymore. As if they were finally on common ground. "Pan," Hook said, his black eyebrows furrowed close, "who's this 'he?'"

Peter closed his eyes painfully. "Felix," Peter said, opening his eyes to stare at each of the adults, head-on, as if daring them to belittle him, "He's declared war."

"War?" Charming asked, blinking. "Why would he want to - "

Peter's hand moved to his cut lips and his fingers brushed them, ever so slightly; he brought his hand away quickly, wincing. "He believes I'm a cheater," Peter said, his voice hoarse, "that I'm not fit to be Leader anymore; but Neverland under Felix's rule would be disastrous. Not just for this world - but for _all worlds_."

Peter turned slightly and in the dappled light, the adults caught the first glint of the boy's bloodied side. Snow's bow arm fell to her side. Charming's jaw dropped. Regina's grip on Henry grew stronger as Emma searched frantically for her son's hand to which she then clung to. Even Hook went to his rum bottle at the sight.

Peter gave a pained gasp of a sigh. "Which now you know," He said through clenched teeth, "is why it is so important that we hurry up and get off level ground while we still can."

Regina was shocked to see the rest of the adults agree; obviously, she was used to it after being forced into such close quarters with them for so long but to do it so quickly, so willingly, it wasn't beside the former Queen to be surprised by this thoughtless act of gullability - she had just gotten her son back, too!

"Wait," Regina said, her eyes narrowed on Peter; she ignored his plain state of pain, "what if this is a trap? You're all just going to walk right into it and listen to him? Because of _him _we've been in Neverland searching for Henry - and when we finally find him, you want to help the kid that stole him from us?"

Peter sighed. "I didn't _steal _him away from you, Regina; typically stealing means the theif doesn't hand you back the treasure, which I have just done, no strings attached. What I really want to do is to get all of you safe - including Henry, especially Henry. Now, would you like to follow me before my former second-in command slews us all or would like you to continue this pleasant conversation?" He waited for a moment, to which no one contradicted him. He nodded and turned, showing the arrow still biting in his shoulder; he reached back and pulled it out, hissing, before letting the arrow drop to the dirt. "Follow me," He said, his voice thick in pain, "I have an idea on where we can hide for now; not even Felix knows of it."

The adults grudgingly followed the former demon, only determined to go on when they looked back at Henry, decked out in Lost Boy get-up. He was talking to them all, trying to answer multiple questions in a single sentence while fending Regina and Snow from smoothing down his hair. Peter would stop and look back, not at the adults as his focus, but Henry - and each time, his eyebrows would furrow and his lips would sting as if telling him that maybe Felix had been right somewhere - maybe Peter did have a liking for Henry, enough to make his second-in command jealous and want to have Peter (and Neverland) at his full control.

All Peter knew was that Felix would never get away with it.


	2. Two Paths

**Two Paths**

_"Absence makes the heart grow fonder… or forgetful." -Peter Pan_

"Where exactly are we going?" Snow asked, following close behind Peter, who had been forced to slow down due to the intense pains in his side and shoulder, which was the only way she - a grown girl - could keep up with such a wild youth as him.

"A cave," Peter said, thrusting his good leg forward in an effort to lessen the pain in his opposite side. "I believe I used to hide out there, before the Boys were here."

"You mean," Snow asked quietly, "you were alone?"

Peter was silent; Snow wondered whether he was taking a breather. He sighed, glanced at her. "It's a small island, sure, but it's too big for me to be completely alone. I had my thoughts, the children that would visit on occasion. The strangers that would come and go. I was never completely alone, 'least not as alone as I had been already."

Snow blinked; of course, she could relate with Peter on several levels. On the run, she had always felt alone, as if she were a burden to anyone who went to help her so she chose not to look weak, so as not to have them feel it was an obligation for them to grow an attachment to her. She would leave towns quickly and quietly, which would explain why she never wished to meet people as it would always end in unspoken good-byes. She could see herself in Peter's eyes, more than just her reflection in the black of his pupil; she could see her abandonment, her loss, her pain. Even now, she knew the only thing that could possibly save Peter was true love, as if had been for her; call it mother's intution.

Charming sided with his wife, glancing between the bleeding boy and Snow. "Everything alright?" He asked, turning to the ivory face of his wife.

She nodded, meeting his gaze. There was something in her eyes that Charming recognised; it was the look she always had when she was thinking deeply.

Behind the two came Killian, Regina, Emma and Henry. Henry met Peter's gaze but he looked down quickly, not wanting to look at the boy when he was still in this shaken state. Regina raised an eyebrow, pursing her lips. "Which way now?"

Peter blinked, turning quickly on his heels. He looked at the two paths, his mind muddling further. As far as Peter knew, there had always been a single path; but, unless his eyes decieved him, there were _two _paths this time around. He furrowed his brow, glancing between the two.

"_Well_?" Regina asked.

"I," Peter faltered. "I ... don't remember two paths. There was always one ... wasn't there?"

Regina rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. She wanted to snap at him, but her son's quick look silenced her lips into a thin unamused line.

Peter limped to the paths and inspected the two. They were both nearly identical; both dirt paths were trodden and worn, there were no knicks in the trunks of the trees on either side and there was no identifying factor that the paths held any difference whatsoever. Peter knew better, though; he might not have remembered which path he supposed to go but he knew he would just have to look and look _intently. _

He surveyed the ground, the air, the foilage beyond. He walked down each path for several feet before changing his mind, to which he would turn back around and retrace his steps. The adults watched him, soon growing tired of standing around and watching Peter go in circles; Henry, however, watched Peter in undying curiousity and eventually began to question him each time he would come back to the crossroads between the paths.

"Did you find anything?" He would ask, hope laced in his voice. "How about now?"

Peter would shake his head or shrug or simply walk past Henry when his questioning grew irritating. Eventually, Peter caught sight of a silver flash of light on the ground. He bent down and picked up the little silver cap; the hard-pitted metal dug into his fingerpads as he tried to look at it in the diminishing darkness. He tossed it in air and caught it skillfully in his palm, folding his fingers over it. The feeling of it was familar, he was sure of it; he just couldn't recall what it was he was holding.

Peter retraced his steps back, noting that this was the left path which was the right path ...

Peter shook his head, letting his thoughts unwind as Henry came back into view. His eyes lit up as he asked, "Did you find anything?"

Peter nodded, smiling for the first time since Felix's betrayal, still a few hours' old. "Yes, I did indeed find something," Peter replied, gaining the interest of the adults.

Regina pursed her lips. "What is it then?"

"A finger cap," Peter said proudly, grinning; his smile reopened the wound on his lip. He held the thimble out and placed it on his pointer finger for all to see.

"You mean a thimble?" Emma asked, squinting at the silver cap upon Peter's finger. "What would one be doing out here?"

"Why, it's treasure! _Lost _treasure," Peter said. "That's how the timbell got here."

Peter pointed his opposite pointer finger in the direction of the path he had gone down. "This is the path we shall take," He said.

Regina's laugh left her throat in a single huff of breath. "Why? Because you found a _thimble_?"

"Yes," Peter said, turning to look her in eye. "I know where I'm going, Regina; this is my island, after all." With that, he turned and began on his way down the path, tucking his thimble into his pocket. He glanced over the bleeding spot in his shoulder as he continued on his way. "Coming?"

...

"Are you all coming or not?" Felix asked, focusing his hardened gaze on the lads before him. He could spot his stake-outs amid the Lost Boys before him; they were the only ones untouched by physical mars, their eyes empty instead of filled with desperation and distrust. "I need a group of lads willing to find this cheater and put an end his games. Who will volunteer?"

There was no answer besides the warm breeze; nonetheless, every Boy shuddered, every Boy besides Felix - although, he didn't exactly consider himself a Boy any longer but a Demon, worthy of his title. Felix licked Peter's liquid pain from his lips; it was already cold, a few hours' old - too old in his opinion.

"I _said_," Felix spat, "who will volunteer? Unless you wish for me to take my pick, I suggest you all begin the raising of hands. The more we let his betrayal affect us, the more of an impact his next will have."

Several of the Boys seemed outraged by this obvious jab at Peter's reputation; they _knew _Peter would never leave them willingly, he had promised never to. Peter had never broken a promise to them, even when it had costed him dearly; for him to just _leave_ without so much as a proper explanation, it was most unlike him. They kept their opinions to themselves, however, and held their tongues; all but one lad, a newer one that didn't know better.

"If we do not wish to fight in your petty squabbles, who can blame us?" The Boy asked boldly, standing tall. Even the breeze fell silent at his outburst as Felix looked down his long nose at the lad. "If this has happened once, it's happened a _million_ times - "

Felix held up a hand, silencing the Boy; in a flash, a knife glimmered in his hand, against his finger. "Hold your tongue, lad," Felix said, "unless you wish for it be cut out."

...

"Here it is!" Peter said cheerfully; his joy for finding his old hideout overrid his pain. He limped quickly to the little house he'd built long ago; it no longer resembled a house, more an old slab of driftwood against a sea-grey cliff face. He had to push aside a thick curtain of creepers to get to the door and had to slam his poor-footed weight against the driftwood several times for it to budge, but nonetheless, the fact that it was still standing suprised Peter to no end.

He turned and grinned when he'd managed to crack the door to enter. His smile fell slightly when he saw Emma place a hand on Henry's shoulder, preventing him from going further. "Aren't you all going to enter with me?" Peter asked, trying to hide his hurt.

Killian glanced at the 'house' in disfavour. "Well, lad ... It doesn't exactly look, well, _safe._"

"I can guarantee to you, Captain, that my home is safe," Peter said, turning on his heel to disappear in the darkness of the cliffside home. He walked in blindly, searching for something to emit light to show the adults of his home's well-being. He sighed, banging his shins into multiple objects; he hadn't any recollection what they could be, but they sure hurt when they hit the same spot of his leg multiple times. Once, Peter swore he felt something furry brush against his leg; he put it off as perhaps a fur blanket he'd forgotten he had.

Eventually, Peter found an oil lamp (by found, he'd gained quite a smart upon the forehead as he walked right into it); he used his knife to create a spark to light it, and with the first lit, he went around to the other lamps and lit those as well.

Peter finally emerged from the entrance of the cliffside house; he crossed his arms and looked at the adults from the driftwood doorway. "I believe I deserve an apology," He said, arching an eyebrow that the adults defiantly hadn't missed.

"I wasn't speaking of the house in particular," Killian said, merely shrugging, "I was speaking of this wretched island in general."

Peter rolled his eyes, turned on his heel and began to walk back through the driftwood entrance. He stopped, though, at the sudden intakes of breath from behind and the absense of exhales. "What," Peter asked stiffly although he was afraid he already knew the answer.

"S-sp-spi - " Henry managed as Peter heard two pinchers click; he withdrew his knife swiftly, using a hand to wrap around a furry feeler. He twisted the feeler and ripped the thing from his back before it could dig the clawed tips past his clothing, into his skin; as it hit the ground, Peter threw his knife, impaling the massive spider in the soft flesh of its abdomen. He took a deep breath; he was used to closer calls than that and by now, he didn't even consider spider attacks as near-death expirences, more a test of his reflexes and a bit of always welcomed knife-hurling practise. Peter was far more concerned on the size of the arachnid than anything.

"That's odd," He thought aloud. "Typically they're much larger than this, full-grown."

"_Larger_?" Emma asked, alarmed; she had a hand unsuccessfully shielding Henry's eyes, as he could see through the spaces of the trembling shades of her fingers as if it were a curtain.

Peter nodded, stepping aside and beckoning them to enter the hideaway. "Come on," He urged, glancing to the treetops, "they typically hunt in packs. Because of their size, they'll have more of an advantage of getting around unseen."

"Your brilliant idea on how to get _away _from the spiders is to enter the building you found one in?" Regina asked incrediously.

Peter raised his brow defiantly. "If you have another idea, Regina, do say so."

Regina watched as Peter bent down and pulled his knife from the stomach of the spider. She entered the building first without another word; Killian smiled and said, slightly amused, "Why, the sound of her speechless; music to my ears," before he followed her from behind. Snow and Charming walked in after the pirate, both of their eyes on the treetops Peter had earlier been surveying; Emma pulled her son along, not wanting to leave him alone with Peter and not wanting to be alone with him herself.

Peter watched them all enter his old home; he took a step forward, hearing his boot clink against a bit of metal. He bent back down to pick up the silver cap he had earlier replaced in his pocket and brought it up to the first streaks of dappled green light coming through the leaves at him. He inspected the thimble closely, his eyes catching sight of two swirly initals carved intricately against the bottom of the cap, underneath the wrap-around metal pits: _W.D._

He blinked, having a vague recollection of having known of something - someone? - with those two initals. He couldn't recall, no matter how hard he tried; eventually, Peter's mind hurt too much for him to think any longer on the topic and he replaced it back again in his right pocket. He kicked the spider carcass to the foilage of the trees and went back to the driftwood door; he pulled the curtain of vines down again until they covered the doorway as Peter closed the door on the few inches of outside he could still see.

Peter turned and faced Henry's family. He spread his arms as much as his shoulder wound would allow; his arms were spread unevenly then, one much too low compared to the other. He quirked upward his lips as he said, "Welcome to my hideaway."

Regina glanced at not the odd assortment of things around the home but the thick spiderwebs collecting in corners, in banners across the slate ceiling. She raised an eyebrow.

Peter shrugged. "It hasn't been much use to me since your arrival. Had I known I would have had royalty, I surely would have spiffed up. But, as Neverland has no Kings nor Queens, I never in a million years would have expected your marvelous company." Peter walked to what looked to be a long stone table and took a seat at its head. "Care to take a seat while I fetch the tea? I do enjoy a bit of drink to go along with a good and well story telling, don't you?"

"Story telling?" Henry asked, his interest caught.

Peter nodded. "Yes. No tea, then? I guess I shall explain what happened instead; Killian, mind if you fetch me some spider silk for these wounds while I begin?"

Killian looked overhead at a particular streamer of silk above him, thinking of the impossible task before him; this had always been hard enough with _two _hands. Peter realised this and pushed himself from the table. "Instead, let's give Hook a hand," Peter said, oblivious to his stinging word play, "then I'll tell you all of Felix's declaration of war."

...

Felix had never been fond of the cutting of tongues; that was why he let Daniel handle the matter. It was gruesome, emotionally taxing work he simply hadn't the time for; 'least he wouldn't have to hear the lad speak out of turn anytime soon.

Felix looked out at the drying blood of the camp ground; he tried to reassure himself that this was the right thing to do, fore if he said it enough times, perhaps he would eventually believe it.

It was the beginning of the war, he knew, and change would not happen immeaditly. It would, with time, ease more in his favour and he would finally be able to have Peter for himself. That was all he wanted - none of this bloodshed. Unless Pan made it come to that, then surely blood would be spilt, gallons of it, enough to paint a story of feuding forces - a war for love, wasn't it? Yes, a war for love, torn apart by a nobody of a boy -

Felix pulled his still Dreamshade-tipped dagger from its sheath, the one that had been meant to silence Pan. He drew a slick black-purple slit across the throat of the drawing of The Truest Believer. He smiled, thinking of how easy it would be to get Peter then; oh, but Felix was getting far too ahead of himself, far too excited fore the game had merely just begun.

The beginning was always the best part, in Felix's opinion; and it could last as long as he wished fore he controlled the game now and how he longed to play - and play he shall.

* * *

**I'd like to thank everyone who's read so far and followed/favourited; thank you for all the kind words and I'm so glad you like the idea!**

**There's actually a headcanon for this about _The Itsy Bitsy Spider_ and how in the nonmagical world, spiders are generally miniscule in size and seen as pathetic; in magical lands, like Neverland, they obtain their original size unless they are lacking magic - which therefore 'shrinks them'.**

**AND THE THIMBLES YOU GUYS I JUST MY FEELINGS.**


	3. Clever Adults

**Chapter Two: Clever Adults**

"_Oh, the cleverness of me!" - Peter Pan_

Collecting spider silk was grieving work, Emma decided; she now understood why using just plain magic to heal was much more effective - time-wise, at least.

She tried futilely to pull the sticking strands from her hands; the more she did so, the more it seemed to cling close to her skin. She rolled her eyes and let out an exasperated huff, abandoning that task for the one she was supposed to focus on; she grabbed a large clump of white silk and dumped it on the stone table with the rest of the spider silk they had collected.

She turned to see Peter near her shoulder; in the candlelight, she could finally see how much blood had soaked through his vest. She couldn't imagine the pain he was going through; she wanted to make him sit down and stop making that pained wince everytime he pulled on his shoulder or took a step forward. She wasn't even exactly mad at him for taking Henry, at least not at the moment in time - she couldn't be, not when he wasn't posing a threat. He looked small and fragile when he wasn't smirking, when he wasn't trying to pose as someone authoric.

She watched him side with her son from across the room; by her son's facial expression, it was obvious he was worried for the boy. Henry tugged on his sleeve to bring him closer; Peter lowered his head so that he could hear him. Peter shook his head, smiling gently; he said something under his breath, causing Henry to take a breath of relief and to smile lightly. Peter then seemed to hop at the chance to change the subject; he grabbed a golden locket from the table of objects they were facing. Peter held it up and handed it to Henry; Henry took it, smiling genuinely. The two smiled at each other for a moment before Peter nodded his head quickly, taking a step back slightly and glancing across the room to lock eyes with Emma. He turned and resumed in collecting silk instead of conversing with her son, who wound the locket around his throat before tucking it beneath his scarf, turning to his own section of spiderwebs.

"I never would've pinned you as _that _type of mother, Swan," Killian mused, trying to unwind silk from his silver hook with his good hand, smirking bemusedly at the back of Emma's blonde head.

She turned to him, furrowing her eyebrows. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well," He said, "really, it's whatever you perceived it to be. I think it's kind of cute, actually, you getting all riled up."

Emma quirked her eyebrow, her eyes narrowing dangerously. "'_Riled up_?'" She tried hard to ignore the fact that Killian had just complimented her.

Killian smiled, perhaps to lessen the intensity in her deep blue eyes; it only seemed to make them spark up. "Well, you know, watching him like that; making sure your boy is alright," Killian stumbled over his words, a bit surprised that that was what Emma was glaring at him for and not his slip of tongue of her looks. "It's honourable, your love for him, is what I'm trying to say."

She stared at Killian longer than he would've liked, although he wasn't entirely not in favour of having such a view of her; he liked how her eyes reminded him of his sea-dog days, like a hurricane about to brew, and how they would soften just as the sea would when he had expected it to swallow him and his ship whole. Her eyes did just that and she glanced away then right back at Killian as she muttered, "Thanks, I guess."

He nodded. "Don't mention it."

The two stood in premature awkward silence; Hook actually missed the splash of the waves and whistle of fierce wind that would've usually droned out this discomfort. He watched as Emma pursed her lips before turning away; his fingers inched to his bottle as he stared at her receding. His fingers wound themselves around the body of his bottle but he sighed and resisted a draught, hearing Emma's voice in his head; _Is rum your solution to everything? _He gritted his teeth and steeled his resolve, bringing his hand out from behind his coat. He turned quickly on his boots to a new corner and set to work, not turning to look at Emma who had glanced back to him.

From a corner of the little house, Regina had seen the same exchange between her son and Pan; it made her fingers twitch subconciously and her stomach flip. She knew Pan would have made it his goal to become close to her son after thieving him, but even so, she wasn't happy at all that the two were still in such close proxmitity. She'd resisted from using her magic to heighten the pain in his wounds lest the magic be fresh and point the signs to her, so instead, she'd used a bit of it to listen in on their conversation. She hadn't expected Pan to use such a gentle tone with her son and to give him a gift - that locket; she couldn't bring herself to believe it was _just _a gift, as he could've easily used foul play. She didn't trust the boy; all she wanted to do was protect her son and go back home with him in one piece. She could do that without Pan being so friendly towards him.

Peter glanced over at the stone table, feeling Regina's eyes hot on his skull; he walked over to the table and pulled a clump of the soft mass of white into his hand. He flattened it down with his hands, trying to create a sort of padding. He did this several times with other scraps of silk until he had multiple wraps; as he worked to formulate a roll of it, Charming took to dumping his and Snow's silk on the table. Peter glanced at it and nodded in acknowledgement, focused on his making of the padding. Charming thought for a moment, remembering how Peter had tried to convince Hook to kill him and decided against giving the boy a hand in the creation of the substitute for guaze, turning back to where Snow was.

Peter felt a sting in his side, a jab; his face contorted as he tried to bite down his gasp of pain, his nails digging into the silk he'd been moulding. His body shook as he tensed; the poison shouldn't have been affecting him so quick, hadn't he still a few hours before it would?

Peter cursed loudly, catching the adults' attention as well as Henry's. Peter dropped the silk patch, trying to undo the belt lashed across his stomach; he did so, throwing it to the dirt floor before he unceremoniously tore his vest and shirt off in one swift movement. Peter gave a cry as the air assualted his wounds; plum-black blood coated his fingers as he pressed his hands futiely against his side. Peter glanced up, real fear dancing in his eyes like the candelight dancing fluidly across the wet blood dripping down his shoulder blade.

Killian swore, rushing forward; he caught the boy under the armpits as his knees buckled. Killian barked orders as if he were aboard his vessel; that was the best place he'd been able to handle pressure, he knew. He used his hooked arm to push aside the silk patches; at his request, a fur blanket was placed over the stone. He laid the boy upon it, ordering for water - any water. He then looked down at the lad, who stared up at Killian in pained disbelief; he gave a single nod, writhing in agony as more plum-black blood bubbled from his side wound. "Have you any idea what you're doing?" He asked through tightly clenched teeth.

Killian shrugged, grabbing a silk patch. "Not a clue."

Emma rolled her eyes and pushed Killian aside. "I've got this," She snapped, ripping the silk patch from Killian's hand. She looked over her shoulder swiftly. "We need water!"

"We can't find any in this place," Charming answered, having run from the side of the room that had been cut off by a hide curtain.

"Well, who would be stupid enough to lose water?" Peter asked through his teeth.

Emma gave him a sharp glance, turning to Hook. "The bottle," She demanded. "Where's your rum?"

Killian's eyebrows jumped sharply. "My _rum_? Why have we got to bring my bottle into this?"

"It's the only thing we have to clean this," Emma snapped. "Unless you want his death on your head, I would suggest you _hand it over._"

Killian seemed affronted, nonetheless, he grudgingly handed her his bottle to which Emma uncorked and titled so that a gold stream of liquid came down like a tantalizing waterfall. Killian watched his rum go to waste, biting down on his own teeth to not make a pitiful noise of indignation; he wasn't sure Emma would've heard it over Peter's horrible yowling though he wasn't about to chance it. She winced at the noise, bringing the bottle upright before dribbling some of the rum into Peter's open mouth to which he choked upon; she grimanced slightly, realising she probably should've given him some rum to ease the pain with drunkeness before just pouring it downright into his wound, which was hissing and foaming.

Snow and Charming watched as Emma worked; she tried to ease the bad blood out with the rum, using her other hand to wipe away the poison that would then collect on Peter's spiderwebbed skin near the open infection. Emma bit the inside of her cheek, working furiously; when she'd gotten as much of the poison as she could, she glanced over at Regina and asked, panic constricting her voice, "Aren't you going to help?"

Regina blinked, taken aback. "Me? It looks like you're handling it just fine."

Emma glared at her. "This is no time for your arrogance, Regina; get over here and _help_."

"You sure told her," Peter groaned, writhing painfully. He looked up and caught Regina's eye. "Although, I wouldn't want the _Queen's _help even if she offered it."

Regina raised an eyebrow and gestured to Peter with an outstretched hand. "See? He doesn't even want my help, so why should I give it?"

"But, I do know who _can _heal this," Peter spoke up past his teeth, which he'd bit down. "Henry can."

Emma stopped what she was doing and stared at Peter's face; Killian looked down at the boy as well, his eyebrows dipping nearer than usual. Regina took a step forward, suddenly feeling defensive for her son; he shouldn't do magic - he _couldn't _do magic -

Henry pulled away from Snow's hand on his shoulder; he walked from his grandparents to look at Peter through the space between his mothers. "Me?"

Peter nodded, although it pained him. "The son of two sorcerers and The Dark One Junior; why not?"

Henry looked up, feeling his mothers glance at him in unison. Emma met Regina's gaze. "It makes sense," She said, shrugging.

Regina stared at Emma in revulsion. "It makes sense if you're completely _deranged_," Regina snapped. "Henry doesn't _know _magic! He's never used it in his life!"

Henry scratched at the back of his neck. "_Actually_," He started.

Regina turned her head to stare at her son. She blinked. She asked a single word: "When?"

"I was still pretty little," Henry said, shrugging. "Remember that magic kit you got me one year for my birthday? The one you told me was just a fake, but you bought it for me anyway because it was all I asked for?"

Regina's mouth grew dry as she nodded numbly.

"Well, one day when you were out watering your tree," Henry recalled, "I was playing with it. I'd dug it out from under my bed and placed it on the dining room table. A lot of the pieces were missing - mainly the cards, since I could never figure out how to shuffle them right - but I still had the wand. I took it out and flicked it and said a bunch of words from that book you'd left on the counter - the really cool leather one I wasn't supposed to touch, remember?"

Regina's eyes narrowed slightly. "Yes, I remember."

"Yeah, well," Henry continued quickly, "anyway, it didn't work, not even with your book. So, I just got really frustrated and thought about everyone who told me it wouldn't work - you, the kids at school, the salesman - and I thought, well, I thought ... I thought about how much I believed in it and how much I wanted it to happen, how much I wanted magic to be real and to work, and then it _did._ A spark flew out of the wand and it was just _awesome._ Until it broke one of your vases, then it was less awesome, but still _awesome._"

Regina stared at her son. "You told me the cat knocked down that vase! That's why we got rid of it!"

Peter rolled his eyes, speaking up. "Look, I'm still sort of _in pain here_, so can you just give Henry an incantation so I can get off this table - which is _really _smarting at the moment - and continue your lovely yelling match at another time?"

Regina pursed her lips, infuriated at Peter's intrusion in her conversation with her son; she realised, however, that the rest of his family - _her_ family now - were staring at the two.

"How do you not realise your son's magic?" Killian questioned, arching an eyebrow.

Regina shot Killian a fierce glare. "Shut up!"

"Mom," Henry said, "please tell me a spell to help him."

Regina stared at her son, annoyed highly; she blamed Pan and the charm he must've used to brainwash her son. "I thought I wasn't supposed to do magic," She said; Emma rolled her eyes as she shouted, "You've got to be kidding!"

"Mom, you aren't the one using magic, _I am_," Henry retaliated. "You have to trust me, okay?"

Regina met her son's gaze. "I do trust you, Henry."

"Then show me that!" Henry said, desperation leaking in his tone as Peter let out another cry he tried, without success, to muffle.

"Fine," Regina said, the incantation at the tip of her tongue. " ... Fine."

...

A group of at least ten Lost Boys followed Felix through The Dark Forest, each armed with a spear or a bow of some kind, some with swords and knives and knotted clubs. They didn't ask questions, merely followed, as they always had with Peter; with Peter, they knew he had a game in store - Felix, though, made the Boys strangely anxious, nervous. They didn't feel as safe as they orginally had, not with the bruises still blueing on their bodies and the sight of Peter being run from his very own camp still fresh in their minds.

Felix stopped moving; he held up a hand, signalling for the lot of them to come to a stop. They did, their hands gripping their weapons; their bodies tensed, awaiting a signal to attack, to play - they hadn't expected Felix to walk between two trees and disappear in the foilage, out of view of the rest of the Boys. They glanced in confusion at one another, a few of them standing tall to try to see into the leaves.

Felix looked down at the path before him, at the two adults standing below his feet on the mulch cliff. He bent down, trying to listen in on their conversation; he could feel the power radiating off the both of them, but he was unsure as if he should attack the two now or wait to see if he had more lads to jump them.

Even before the two talked, Felix could feel the connection between them; father and son. He smirked, gazing at the back of Baelfire's head; he watched Rumplestiltskin try to convince his son of their plan to get Henry back.

Felix had to fight himself not to laugh; seems word hadn't gotten to The Dark One and The Truest Believer's father. He watched Neal (_what _was he going by nowadays?) pull a scrap of tan tattered paper from the folds of his shirt; he unfolded it and pointed at the red X, in the topmost bit of the island. Felix's eyes widened; how did he get a map of Neverland?

"The X moved," Neal said, exhasperation heavy in his tone. "They moved him again - half way across the island, even!"

"We'll find him, Bae," Rumple said, though his voice was weighed down the same as his son's. "I assure you, we will."

"Finding the lost isn't very easy," Felix cut in, "'specially in a place such as Neverland."

Neal stiffened and Rumple turned, eyes hot like coals. Felix had enough of a mind to figure he had found that Belle had been merely a shadow; this didn't exactly concern Felix, not in any way, but he knew it ought to concern Peter.

_Pan_, his mind countered. _It ought to concern _Pan.

Felix smiled, though it didn't look an ounce friendly what with his diagonal scar. "You know," He said, "I could be of help."

Neal turned, anger contorting his face. "Why the hell would I want your damn help?" He snapped, glaring at Felix.

Felix raised his eyebrows. "Why, to catch _Pan. _You don't think I _agree _with the way he's been running Neverland? It's been horrid, him at the lead. The lads all follow him because _that's all we can do_. We don't listen to him, we get sent to either the Caves or the Tree, and neither of those are very fun." Felix pulled his knee up to better look out at the two. "You catch Pan, you get Henry; simple as that."

Neal shook his head. "You're loyal to Pan; you wouldn't cheat him."

"If I had the chance, I would," Felix countered. "I always would. The Boys deserve better and you lot deserve to go home. It was unfair of Pan to take your boy, to take any of these Boys. Here," Felix hopped down, "let me take a look at that map of yours."

Neal held the map just out of reach. "I can read maps, _kid._"

Felix's scar twitched, his hand outstreched. "I just want to help, Baelfire."

Neal glowered at Felix. "Since when did you have a heart?"

Felix chuckled. "Funny you should ask. Now, would you kindly hand me the map or will I have to simply take it from you, Baelfire? Like old times?"

Rumple took a step before his son. "You won't get that map," He said sternly.

"So sure, are you, 'Stiltskin?" Felix countered. "I believe it's time to humour you, then. _Lads!_"

The Boys came down from behind the curtain of foilage; Neal and Rumple took up a defensive stance.

"Why hasn't Pan come out himself?" Neal demanded, his hands tightening into fists. "Why is making his own Boys fight his fights?"

Felix blinked. "He isn't; they _volunteered._"

"Who in their right mind would volunteer to death?" Neal growled.

"I guess that's the difference between us Boys and the rest," Felix said, "we aren't frightened by such a primitive thing as death."

"I know what you should be frightened of, though," Neal said, sharing a look with his father. "It's called _losing._ You might want to tell Pan of it; he'll feel it soon enough."

The two, father and son, were there one moment and gone the next; Felix and the rest of the Boys searched frantically for them, anger burning Felix's skin. He'd always been told by Peter that he got too cocky among adults; it wasn't his fault they were just large idiots.

_Apparently _clever _idiots_, Felix's mind murmured, _they sure fooled you._

Felix had half a mind to want to punch the owner of that horrid voice and another half to tell him it wasn't real, just his imagination - his Madness.

There was a call among the lads; Felix shoved himself to the front, to the Boy clutching the scrap of map. Felix grinned, taking it from the lad; he held it up so that the first rays of light came through the weathered parchment. His eyes went to the X, the mark of treasure; the mark of Pan, himself, where he was hiding.

Felix chuckled darkly, knowing he would need to get to the camp. The adults really were old fools! This was fantastic to Felix; he now knew whereever that imp, Peter, was.

The game was about to get interesting.

**so because the writers are **_**assholes**_

**- (adorable assholes that I respect) -**

**I now need a backstory for what Nealfire and Rumple are doing.**

**So. Here it is.**

**They're looking for Henry on their own, yadda, yadda; they think they can cover more ground that way but then Felix runs into them and screws everything up**

**- (and since Captain Swan is **_**one-sided **_**now, you don't get that fluff. You get awkward, then the loss of Killy's rum, which doesn't even heal Peter, it just gets him really snarky)**

**oh yeah and Henry's done magic before and I guess they had a cat emphasis on had**

**and they dropped the map (are they really that dumb, you ask; no, I answer, they is not)**

**yesterday's episode hurt a lot and that commerical for next week.**

**Henry cannot leave. Okay. I forbid it. So does Peter. Just.**

_**Who's idea was it to give writers power?**_


	4. Detached Hope

**Chapter Four: Detached Hope**

_"There are many different kinds of bravery." - Peter Pan (2003)_

"This might hurt," Henry said, his eyebrows pinching as he looked down at Peter, his back rigid against the table. Peter's nails skitted across the stone as he clenched and unclenched his hands.

"I trust you, Henry," Peter managed between his clenched teeth, as tight as his fists against the sweaty fur that clung to his bare back.

Henry slipped a shred of cloth between Peter's teeth, telling him to bite down. Peter oblidged, doing so on a pained gasp, his teeth grinding down on fabric instead of his molars.

"Okay. Ready?" Henry asked, his hands growing numb with anxiety. Peter jerked a nod, closing his eyes tightly and biting down on the cloth; Peter's body tensed, his muscles seizing, awaiting the pain that would come next.

"_Curatio somnium vulnus_," Henry said, pressing a hand to the wound above Peter's hipbone. Peter let out a muffled cry, his face contorting; he tried to keep from moving his body, but his instinct was to pull away from the pressure of Henry's hands down on his side.

"_Curatio somnium vulnus_," Henry repeated; he could feel the warm blood of Peter's wound against his hand. Henry could practically feel the pain Peter was in, could feel the poison it entailed, even with several layers of skin between the poison and his blood. An edge came to his voice as Peter whimpered on a practicularly pitiful wince: "_Curatio somnium vulnus._"

Henry stared down at his hands, one atop the other, plum-black syrupy blood oozing between his fingers. Henry brought his hands away, glancing back at his family. "It isn't working," He said, desperation lacing his voice.

"You have to concentrate," Regina advised him, though she felt even worse for her son. He didn't deserve to be put on the spot like this; he might've have done magic, but nothing as demanding as extracting liquid death.

"I'm trying," Henry said, locking eyes with Peter; Henry felt extremely guilty then and repositioned his hands against the wound, applied pressure. "_Curatio somnium vulnus_," He said again.

Henry wasn't sure what he should've been expecting; a spark of light? The poison to just up and disappear? He didn't know but he sure hoped it would work quickly; he didn't like the fact that each of Peter's current grunts were his fault.

"Try ... concentrating on a feeling," Regina told Henry; she shared a glance with Emma across from her. "Any feeling, any emotion ... A strong one. Any one."

Henry thought hard. What sort of feeling should he go with? He didn't dislike Peter; no, Peter was his only friend in Neverland - his only friend _anywhere_, really. He liked him, sure; he didn't want Peter to _die_, that was why he was going to heal him. Peter had given him the locket; Henry owed him a good night's sleep, didn't he?

Peter spit out the cloth, knowing he'd have to give Henry a hint. He was only eleven; what had Peter expected, for the kid to know exactly how to heal him and how to do it quickly but enough so that he wouldn't rush and only temporarily pause the poison? Peter sighed rather painfully, his breathing ragged, but he sucked in a breath and said, "Belief."

Henry met Peter's gaze. "What?" He asked, staring down at Peter who clenched his teeth down tightly again in pain as his wound gushed.

"Belief," Peter gasped out in a sharp breath. "Henry, you need to _believe_."

Henry looked down at Peter's wound; the candlelight reflecting from the oily blood seemed to glare up at him, taunting him. _You can't do this, _Henry could hear his mind counter. _You can't heal Dreamshade; you're too weak, you haven't got enough confidence, not at all. You haven't got enough belief, Henry; The Truest Believer, a coward, scared of a little scratch - a scratch that could bring down the mighty Pan?_

Henry's nostrils flared; he had to do this, just to prove that voice wrong - to prove to Peter that he _was _The Truest Believer, to prove to his family that he was magic and that he could control it, without using it for ill purposes as his mother and grandfather had.

Henry, in a spurt of something he didn't know he had, placed his hands down on Peter's wound and pressed down, hard, this time. Peter clamped his lips down, muffling the worst of his groan as Henry said the incantation with a type of fiercity that actually caused the hairs on Peter's arms to stand on end; "_Curatio somnium vulnus_!"

Blinding light exploded from the bottom of the palm Henry had placed against the gushing wound; the flow of black blood seemed to quicken until red blood seeped between Henry's fingers. Henry glanced up, letting out a laugh of relief as he watched the colour flush back to Peter's orginally pale face and the light reignite in his once-pained eyes.

Peter relaxed his head back against the soiled fur blanket that had been placed beneath him; he thought for a fleeting moment of how he barely had enough blankets as it was, without one of them being ruined due to him allowing weakness - he pushed the thought aside, promising himself that they would make-do with what they had until he had time to search for a new one.

He looked up and met Henry's relieved gaze; Henry could see the clouds in Peter's eyes diminish when he looked at him. "I knew you could do it," was all Peter said as he began to push himself from the blanket and the table, but he glanced back to catch Henry's eye to give him a thankful grin that would've been missed if one hadn't been watching the two closely which the family had, until Peter diverted their attention from Henry to himself, as he proceeded to push himself from the table.

"Whoa, kid," Emma said, holding out an arm to stop Peter from moving further. "You're still bleeding."

Peter glanced down at the fierce flow of red tainting his skin, a lot more human than the putrid poison that had been flowing in his veins. He shrugged, not sounding at all concerned as he said, "I s'ppose." He grabbed a silk wrap with his bloodied hands, trying to remove the sticky filaments from his fingers. He looked up, meeting Emma's eyes with his own furrowed brow. He held the patch out to her. "Would you mind ... ?"

Emma, after a second of thought, took the silk patch from Peter, though after looking at the splotches of poisoned blood his fingers had left, grabbed a cleaner one to put against the boy's wound. She grabbed it, picked up Hook's bottle and dabbed the damp nose of it against the patch, which she then placed against the warm blood of his partically healed wound. Peter's expression faltered but other than that, he kept a poker face towards the family watching him closely. Emma kept her hand against the silk bandage, wondering what she was going to use to hold it in place.

"There's leather cord on that table there," Peter said, as if he'd known what Emma was thinking. He jerked his head to Killian, who was the closest to it. "Could you hand it over, Killy?"

Killian narrowed his eyes. "First he takes me rum, then has the bloody audacity to boss _me _around ...," Even so, he grabbed a bundle of leather from the cluttered table, about to hand it off to Emma, when his eyes caught sight of a glimmer. Being a pirate, he'd always had quick eyes; being a Captain of such a vessel as _The Jolly Roger_, he'd also become accustomed to finding treasure which this definitely was. Killian stopped, letting the leather fall from his hand as he jumped forward, pulling the glittering gold-and-silver sextant from the clutter of the table. He stared down at it, at the golden emblazoned Pegasus among the constellations and the stars and Killian gaped down at it, turning around as he sputtered accusingly, "M-my ... You stole my sextant!"

Peter let out a scoff. "Even _I _wouldn't go pecking in your pockets, pirate. Although you should probably start checking them to make sure you've still got a hold of your valuables before you carelessy set off, without even a proper farewell."

Killian's jaw popped from the force he exerted against his teeth. "Oi, bite your tongue - "

"I'd rather not bleed more than I have already," Peter snapped, inching his fingers to push Emma's away from his wound, which was already pinking the silk. Peter stood and walked forward, to which he bent down painfully and grabbed the cluster of leather. He straightened and met Killian's accusitory gaze. "You lost it, idiot. It showed up here, on the shore, as every Lost thing does. I found it and recognised it, brought it back here. Knew you'd have to come back for it - although you would've had to have been _aware _that you'd lost it, wouldn't you? So I kept it; go ahead, take it. It's not like I ever had a care for it, anyways."

Peter turned away, dropping the leather again on the soiled blanket as he grabbed more silk, his hand still pressed to his wound. He grabbed a long strip of silk and put it beneath his pink fingers before wrapping it along his side and around his body. He did this several times before he grabbed a leather cord and tied it along his middle before knotting it off, leaving the ends hanging. He turned, catching them all staring at him. "What? Never expected me to know how to dress a wound?" He asked, turning his back on them once again to begin folding up the soiled blanket.

"All this time?" Killian asked, gazing down at the sextant. "You kept it?"

Peter glanced over his still-poisoned shoulder. "Yeah, well, it meant something to you; it meant some_one _to you," Peter mumbled before adding quickly, "It wasn't like I was about to let the bloody Sirens get their fins on it - never would've gotten it back."

" ... Thank you, mate," Killian said and for once since Lee's death, the two met one another's gaze, not an ounce of scorn in their eyes on either side.

"Yeah," Peter said, nodding. "Your shoulder," Killian pointed out.

Peter tried to look down his shoulder at the poisoned cut near the jut of his shoulder blade. He shrugged, looking down at it. "It's not too bad," He said, "just a knick. I can handle it."

"C'mon, kid," Emma spoke up. "You're not invincible."

Peter's eyes seemed to cloud over, as if he were thinking hard. His face scrunched and he looked up, not really at anyone in particular.

After a long while, he turned to Emma and blinked. The pain in his shoulder only seemed to prove the point that Peter was vulnerable, that he'd gotten no where from the frightened orphaned boy of his youth. He was still the same old Peter Piper; he could still be brought down - killed.

He sighed, glancing over to Henry. "Alright then," He said, pushing himself up so he could sit on the edge of the stone. He looked expectantly to Henry.

Henry blinked. "You want me to heal you again?"

"Yeah," Peter said, shrugging. "You can skip the spell this time, don't really need it."

Regina placed a hand on her son's shoulder, the scar on her lip giving an involuntary twitch. "Excuse me?"

"The spell. It's not exactly needed," Peter said, shrugging. "This wound isn't nearly as bad as the last one. Anyway, Henry's belief should do the trick enough. That's how powerful he is, if you haven't noticed; his faith and his belief are strong enough without a string of stupid words."

"Then why did you ask for an incantation if you didn't need it?" Regina hissed.

Peter's eyebrows furrowed for a second, as if he were trying to figure why he did it as well; then he shrugged and simply said, "It would've seemed funny without it, wouldn't it of?"

...

Neal turned to his father, after they'd materialised several yards from where they'd been ambushed by Felix and The Lost Boys. Rumple looked to him, glancing to Neal's empty hands. "You left it, then?" He asked, meeting his son's gaze.

"Yeah," Neal said, holding out his left palm. "Do you mind?"

Rumple took a step forward, placing a crooked finger down so that the nail dug slightly into Neal's palm. Rumple whispered quickly under his breath, his teeth clinking as many dialects left his tongue.

Light blazed over Neal's pink flesh, painting a map over his skin. Blue light dipped in an outline of the lagoon, teal tails flickering like incandescent lighting. The island was lined with a dark green; the Caves a mottled purple; the Tree a red-brown; the abandoned native tee-pees a blood-red; Dead Man's Peak a dark forbidding grey. A large ruby-red X was slashed between the native camp and the Dark Forest, at the upmost corner of the map. Neal pointed at the X. "That's where he is," He said. "That's where Henry is and where Henry is, Pan follows."

Rumple glanced at the map, at the X near another white-sand shore, near the bottom-most corner of Neal's hand. "But ... He's there, by the sea shore," He said, confusion thick in his voice. Rumple pointed to the X. "Isn't he?"

Neal furrowed his brow. "What are you talking about?"

Rumple stared at the X he saw, at the rippling image of _The Jolly Roger _bobbing in the water upon the underside of Neal's hand. "It's right there. Don't you see?"

"But ... The X is here," Neal pointed to his own X, Rumple's finger supposedly pointing to the blank spot of shoreline etched in his hand with pulsing golden light.

Rumple shook his head. "No, it's _here,_ Bae."

"No, Papa, it isn't," Neal insisted. "Don't you believe me? It's here, between the encampment and the Forest! I've been here before, Papa, I know!"

"You think I haven't been here before, Bae? I have," Rumple spoke, his voice thick with emotion; his tone seemed to fray at the seems, "When I was young, this was where I'd come. Until one day ... I was too old. I wasn't allowed back." Bitterness flashed in Rumplestiltskin's eyes. "I wasn't allowed back because I'd grown up and found something Pan didn't understand - love. A family, I had a family, dreams of one with Mela. I had you, Bae, and I couldn't leave you to come here."

Neal stared at his father in the brightening sky poking through the trees. "You came here willingly, Papa; I was forced to. I never would've if I had the choice. It was better me than those Pan had set out for."

Rumple stared at his son. "Who?"

"A girl," Neal looked away, saying quickly, "that doesn't matter anymore. She's dead; she'll always be dead."

There was something in Neal's voice that Rumple recognised, as it had formerly been in his own prior to his Darkening. Neal's voice was laced with detached hope, broken by the crack of his throat and the flick of his tongue, but still there nonetheless.

He had grown up, and no matter how much Rumple convinced himself otherwise, Bael - _Neal _had grown up without a father, without a mother, without any family whatsoever. His mother had chosen her coward husband and son over a pirate with as much a thrist for adventure as there was a thrist for alcohol; his own father had chosen magic - the Darkest of all - over his own son. He had abandoned Bae when he'd needed him most; he'd let him go to the nonmagical world alone and because of Rumplestiltskin's failure to act (for the second time), he had lost his son, just as the Seer foretold.

He wouldn't let himself fail to act again, not with his son back. He would reunite his grandson and Neal and show his son he meant no harm; he merely wanted them to rekindle their family while Henry was still young.

Youth never lasts forever, Rumple was sure to know. Unless, of course, you were Peter Pan.

...

Peter didn't feel youthful at all, mind. He was exhausted, despite the fact that he rarely tired. His wounds, magically healed, still stung and bled against the silk bandages; even Peter knew when magic was enough, as he'd given up explaining this to the adults, whom didn't understand why Peter insisted on letting the inflictions finish healing manually.

Peter also was amiss a blanket and it was obvious the adults and Henry were growing hungry; Peter himself was a bit peckish but he wouldn't of admitted it. He pulled his shirt and vest back over his bandages before grabbing an anbandoned spearhead and wooden bucket, turning to Henry and his family. Peter held the bucket up. "Well, aren't you all hungry? We've got food to catch."

...

After somewhat reluctance, the adults gave in at their growling stomachs and followed Pan through the Forest, trying in vain to keep up with his stride. Henry kept in between the two sides, glancing over his shoulder to keep his family in view before turning back to watch Peter push past leaves. When Peter would stop to glance back, he would comment on how slow the nonmagical world had made everyone but he'd meet Henry's gaze and he'd shrug and tell him he wasn't like the rest before continuing through the foilage.

"Where," Emma panted, "are we going this time?"

"The encampment," Peter said. "There's a spring there and plenty of boars come about. Any of you hunted before?"

Snow nodded. "Used to."

"Good," Peter said. "We'll need someone other than me with experience."

Peter suddenly threw up a hand, crouching on his knees slightly; his outfaced palm stopped Henry short. "Listen," Peter said quietly. "Hear that?"

Indeed, there was a noise, softly muffled by the thick foilage and brush, the loose dirt and aromatic breeze. The noise of snuffling, of ferns rustling, horns scraping, hooves digging; the sound of wild pigs going down the path.

Peter turned to glance to Henry, to his family behind him. "Don't get too close if you haven't got a plan of escape," Peter said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Now. Who'd like to play bait?"

"'Bait?'" Charming asked, furrowing his eyebrows.

"Yes," Peter said, slightly irritated. "Does that mean you a volunteer then?"

"Wait," Snow said, "you said _nothing _about bait."

Peter rolled his eyes, standing up straight. "How _else _are we going to get food? Do you think we can just walk out and steer them by the horns to the fire pit?"

Regina quirked an eyebrow. "Maybe we can."

Peter shot her a sharp look. "_No_, we cannot. We can't use magic to kill the boars; it's prohibited."

"I thought you were King on this island, Pan," Regina countered. "Why would you make a rule like that?"

"I didn't," Peter snapped, his voice raising a hair. "We _have _to kill them manually. If we kill them magically, it is unfair. Now. Who will be bait?"

No one answered Peter; he observed everyone with intense narrowed eyes, his lips pinched. He glanced at Henry and Peter closed his eyes for a long moment, as if thinking. He opened them and sighed, before saying, "Alright, fine, I have a plan. _I'll _be bait, the rest of you can do the fun bit."

Charming had a bad feeling this would be as fun as fighting his first dragon. He just wished he'd be able to fight off a couple pigs easier than he had single-handely against a fire-breathing reptile.

* * *

**Ugh my feelings**

**I do most of this to myself.**

**Expect a boar fight next chapter and an explanation for the X's (perhaps in a few chapters) just**

**... This fandom will literally be the death of me and I'm not even regretting it yet but I know I will, you feel**


	5. Hopeless Demons

**Chapter Five: Hopeless Demons**

"_They were going round and round the island, but they did not meet because all were going at the same rate." - Peter Pan_

Peter looked through the foilage, trying to depict the situation; there were several pigs, covered in thick dark hair, all milling about the loose dirt, snuffling and chewing on what, Peter couldn't tell. He was a little off-put by their soulless black eyes, which reminded him horribly of Felix's own. He swallowed tightly and readjusted his handing on the wooden staff of the spear he held.

There had to have been at least five of them, from what Peter could see from this angle. They weren't oblivious to Peter's scent, either; even Peter could smell the thick choking scent of blood from his clothes. He should've changed into something less soiled, but at the moment, he needed their attention.

He crouched down, his fingers brushing the dirt. His hand tightened on the spear, his only protection if they decided to attack. That was the thing - he hadn't mentioned the instinct of the pigs, the what if between whether they'd run or they'd turn to fight. Peter would just have to keep their attention long enough so that the only one they would see to attack was himself.

One pig, in particular, came close to the ledge Peter overlooked. His Adam's apple bobbed as the pig blew out a puff of hot air, looking up with narrowed demonic eyes to the fern shadowing Peter from sight. Peter's muscles tensed and he lifted a hand to touch the set of wooden pipes on his side, making sure they were still there. He might need them if things went wrong.

Then, with a whooping cry, Peter sprang from his position of hiding; he threw himself over the ledge and brutually brought down his spearhead into the skull of the wild pig underfoot. The pig shrieked, ramming itself blindly into Peter's legs, to which he dodged in a sick dance of quick feet and lithe twirling.

Peter had gotten what he'd wanted - the pigs' undivided attention. Alas, they were not running, not after their emotionless eyes had seen Peter's spear crack through the thick plate of bone of which blood now spurted like a stream of cherry syrup. Peter looked up with darkened eyes, watching as trotters dug ruts in the loose dirt, as horns glistened in what Peter now recognised as blood. Peter lips, pursed, gave a twitch of dismay as he looked past the pigs for a second to see the bleeding body of one of his Boys.

Peter's mouth fell slack, the threat of the pigs forgotten. A word flashed in his mind, matching the blood-smeared face: _Harold._

Peter's eyes flicked back to the pigs, advancing quickly. He would have to give the signal soon, he hadn't much time; he couldn't worry of Harold, whom was most likely presumed dead after being gored by ten sets of horns. He had to worry of himself now.

Peter couldn't make himself, though, not with Harold lying there, not making much noise. It pained him, thinking Harold was dead. That wasn't why the Boys came to Neverland, not to die early, to live forever until, well, until Fate declared their end and severed their hands for cheating Death.

Never in a thousand years had Peter expected to see Harold, of all the lads dead, though. Harold was a clever one, he wasn't idiotic enough to get himself killed by a bunch of _pigs._ He was the one Peter had earlier entrusted with his weapons, as he surely knew how to sharpen a sword and how to use it, and to see him dead, not in battle like Peter had once expected, but to the grueling snouts of poultry ... It lit a fire in him Peter had thought Henry had long ago extinguished.

...

"When is he going to give the signal again?" Regina asked, sitting atop a rock.

"Whenever he's ready for us," Snow said, tilting her head slightly as she gave her bowstring a tug. "He said no sooner, no later."

"I know what he said," Regina snapped, crossing her arms. She watched the family handle their weapons; they looked foolish, Charming with his hand tight on his sword hilt, Snow with her bowarm tense, Emma and Killian with two swords and a hook between the two.

Henry stood beside her, glancing at the trees. He held a wooden stick in his hands, which Regina thought was a pathetic choice of weapon, courtesy of Pan. Regina patted the flat side of the rock she was perched on. "Come on, Henry, sit down."

Henry shook his head, hands clenched around the knotted stick; he listened intently.

His eyes widened. He could hear it - the sound of Peter's scream, loud and drawn out. It was partly a scream of pain, of raw emotion; it froze Henry to the core, the mere sound of it, of it ripping up Peter's throat and assualting his ears.

The rest of the adults heard it, too; Regina pushed away from the rock to put her arms protectively around Henry, who had gone rigid. Snow and Charming tensed; Emma met Hook's gaze, both of their eyes wide.

"Is that the signal?" Emma asked, her voice breaking.

Snow shook her head. "No. Something's wrong. Come on," She kept her bow ready against her arm but she darted forward, the rest of them following close behind.

...

Something had indeed gone wrong - Peter's plan had been completely forgotten, his rage too much to simply play a tune on his pipes. If he had, he wouldn't have slewed the pigs so quickly, he would've given them a fighting chance, would've let the rest of his hunting group have a go.

Instead, Peter looked around at the pigs lying dead in the dirt, now red with shed blood. He stared down at them, the voice back in his mind, his eyes flashing between light and dark; _Look at what you've done, you're a monster, not a boy, a demon, more like. You don't deserve happiness; you deserve loss. You deserve those memories you choose to forget. You'll get them all back soon enough, won't you? You'll get your Lands, back, surely; you just won't remember they're yours._

Peter ignored the voice, as he had plenty of times before. He walked past the unmoving bodies of the pigs to the body of Harold. He nudged him with his boot, taking in the bloody holes that peppered his flesh. "Harold," He called down to him, his voice breaking. "Harold, wake up."

...

The leaves parted as Snow found the ledge. She stopped short, her eyes taking in the bloodied ground, the pig carcasses. This was at least a several foot jump down to them; she could see Peter, now bent over another body, a human body.

Snow turned and said over her shoulder, "Regina, keep Henry over there with you. We'll go the rest of the way."

...

"_Harold_," Peter snapped. "_This isn't time for games, alright_?"

The Boy didn't move, didn't speak. Peter bent close to him, tucking his fingers into the crook of his neck as he pressed his other hand against his forehead. Peter put his ear close to Harold's mouth; he could feel faint breath tickling his skin, the taint of blood wafting up from his mouth. Peter furrowed his brow, feeling the pulse and the breath, the signals of life.

Peter looked down at Harold, at his blood-slickened face, marred with cuts of tusks and bites. Peter swallowed, trying not to become sick. He looked down at the gores spitting blood and Peter had to look away, feeling emotion choke his throat as if someone were strangling him. It would've been less painful that way.

Peter turned his head quickly, pulling his spear into his hand as he leapt to his feet, standing before Harold protectively. He pointed the bloodied speartip to the chest of the intruder, but when he recognised Snow, he brought it down slightly, his quivering lip set into a thin line of resolve. "I don't know what to do," He said.

Snow looked down at the broken body of the Boy. "What happened?"

"The pigs," Peter said, stepping aside. "They got to him before I came down, I ... I don't know how to help him."

Snow turned to her husband, her daughter and the pirate. "Hook," She said, "you had to deal with men going overboard, didn't you?"

Killian nodded. "Yeah, why?"

"Did you ever go back for them, save them?" Snow asked testily.

Killian chewed on the inside of his cheek. "If we had the chance, we did."

"How efficient was it?" She asked. "On a scale of one to ten?"

" ... Three," Killian said. "And their lungs were used to being constricted."

Peter rolled his eyes, shoving past Snow to grow a fistful of Hook's leather vest. "I don't care," Peter snapped, "as long as you _try_." He then threw the pirate down with the force of a raged man.

Hook looked up, meeting the clouded gaze of the boy - _he does look like a demon from this angle_, at least he thought, until the hopelessness returned to Peter's face as he looked quickly to the hurt Lost Boy.

"_Please_," Peter said, the only edge in his voice one of pleading.

Hook sighed, pushing himself up with his good hand. He looked down to the gored Boy. "We'll have to take him back to seal his wounds," Killian said after a quick inspection. "Then we can bring him back around. We'll need water, though."

Peter looked at the pirate, then to the faces of royalty surronding him. "Okay," Peter said, bending down to pick Harold from the ground. "You all grab a pig, we'll take them back, too. I'll take out a group to get water."

Snow, Charming, Hook and Emma all shared a look.

Peter looked at them all, Harold suddenly feeling very heavy in his arms. "What?"

They didn't say anything, though Peter knew they didn't want to go as a group again.

_'Least not with you as the Leader, _his mind countered, ringing with painful truth._ Even _you _wouldn't follow yourself._

...

Henry looked up, meeting Peter's pained gaze. He was holding a boy in his arms, a bleeding boy; Emma, Snow, Charming and Hook all carried bleeding pigs.

Henry's shoulders slumped. "You didn't call us to come along."

Peter nodded, trying to keep the hurt emotion from showing on his facial features. "Yeah, sorry about that, Henry. Got a little sidetracked, must've forgotten."

"Who's that?" Henry asked, pointing to the boy.

"Harold," Peter said, having a harder time keeping emotion from his voice now. "He got hurt by the pigs. We're going to take him back to patch him up."

Henry nodded, smiling slightly when Charming tried to offer Regina a pig to carry. Henry stepped in line beside Peter, looking at the boy and his tightly closed eyes, the closed mouth. "Is he going to be okay?" Henry asked.

"I hope so," Peter said, finally letting his feelings come through his voice. "I really truly hope so."

...

Neal had eventually convinced his father to take the path for the X he had orginally seen. Neal had milked it enough, used the guilt trick plenty of times before The Dark One keeled. In the end, he had and that could've explained the little hop in Neal's step just now as he followed the map etched in his hand.

With all his joyous tottering, he hadn't noticed the X was moving once again as it had moved to the Forest; it was now moving back to the space between both the Forest and the encampment.

He wasn't aware of its moving and neither was Rumple, as his X was still in place near the shore. Rumple was irritated by this, believeing Neal was seeing things and taking him on a wild goose chase. Rumple didn't say that, though; he trusted his son and wished to believe him but after only seeing trees for the past several hours, it had become hard to hope they would actually find Henry now.

If anyone knew how important hope was, it was Neal, and that was why he was so determined to find Henry. He would never stop looking for him.

...

Felix stared down at the crinkled scrap of map in his hand, at the X nearing the ecampment, halfway across the island. He rubbed his forehead with his hand, trying to soothe the harsh voice in his mind, trying to persuade him to go after Peter.

There another X, near the Caves; this X was black, like spilt ink. Felix looked between the two X's, the blood-red to the shadow-black. He took a deep breath, sitting on the fence on indecision. He stood, blew out a breath and turned to the Boys watching his back.

"Lads," He said, "I'm about to gift you with a new name."

The Boys watched him closely, uneasy since his return. They watched Felix, followed his movements.

_Like sheep, _Felix thought. _Except every single one of them is really a wolf in sheep's wool._

Felix looked out at them all, at how the Forest blocked out the light of day, at how the hearth painted them all a burnt orange, at how their shadows danced erratically behind them, waiting to play tricks and games for which they craved to begin.

Felix knew what they all looked like at that moment in time, with their shadows flickering, their eyes dark, their hands tight around weapons meant to kill. They were Demons, followers of The Devil - himself, precisely.

He smiled, so that his scar glowed as if it were red-hot against the hearth's light. "That's what you all are," He said, grinning, "not Boys, no - but Demons. Just as that pirate says we are."

...

Peter had laid Harold in a makeshift cot of animal leather; he'd then grabbed several buckets of tin, wood and shell to take to the spring in the encampment. Peter glanced around at the family already there, and knowing they didn't trust him enough to come along, stood and made his way to the door. "Dress his wounds while I'm gone," Peter said over his shoulder. "If you know how to skin the boars, do so, as well. I'll be back with water."

Henry looked up, standing. "Aren't those going to be heavy?"

Peter glanced down at the four pails he was barely even keeping aloft. He shrugged. "I can handle it."

Henry raised an eyebrow and Peter had to look twice to make sure he wasn't seeing himself in the boy's face. "You've got a bad shoulder and side," Henry said. "You can't carry four full buckets by yourself."

Peter raised an eyebrow and the two seemed to be in competition to see who could raise their's the highest. "Let me come with you," Henry said. "If not me, then someone else."

Peter looked over at Charming, Snow, Regina, Emma and Hook with distaste. "I once heard a story," Peter began, "of a boy and a girl who went up on a hill to get water. One of them cracked their _crown_," He gave Charming a quick look, "and then the girl fell down after him." At this, he gave the girls all a glance. "I think I'd be better off on this trek alone."

Peter was surprised to see Henry give him a glare. "Why are you so stubborn?" He asked.

Peter looked confused by the question. "What's so bad if I am? It's one of the reasons I'm still alive, isn't it?"

Peter looked at Henry. "Fine. I'll bring," He looked over at the girls, as if it were a pain to consider them, "actually, I'll take Prince." He looked to Charming, narrowing his eyes at him. "You're not wearing a crown, are you?"

"You know, they _don't _mean a literal crown," Charming said, glancing over to Snow.

"I'll come with," Snow tried to intervene.

"No, no, that won't do," Peter cut in. "I only need _two _extra hands, not four. You can tend to Harold. Prince and I will fetch the water before it gets dark." Peter raised his eyebrow very slightly but even so, Charming felt personally victimised by it. "Won't we, _Prince_?"

* * *

**I literally have no life at all besides this so**

**A lot of stuff just happened**

**and you guys met Harold**

**(my headcanon is that Peter remembers all the lads' names and he cares deeply for all of them but he can't exactly show that weakness)**

**You'll learn more about Harold when he wakes up, pretty much. You've met him before and he wasn't exactly 'new' because honestly, all the lads have been in Neverland since forever. This kid just really pisses Felix off, just**

**and Jack and Jill reference**

**just**

**I'm sorry for your feelings, my feelings, all the feelings**


	6. War of the Lost

**((To everyone who figured it out, I am so sorry. I was going to send you all tongue puns but decided against it, for Harold's sake.))**

* * *

**Chapter Six: War of the Lost**

_"All of this has happened before, and it will all happen again." - Peter Pan_

Peter and Charming trudged together in testy silence, both of their fists tight over the handles of their buckets.

"How far is it?" Charming asked, keeping in stride with Peter, not wanting him to be in front or behind him, not after his failed persuasion to have Hook double-cross him. Being beside Pan, Charming knew what he was up against, at least that was what he tried to convince himself.

Peter noticed this, obviously. He could sense the distrust like a pending rain, though it hasn't rained in Neverland since the ... Actually, Peter didn't know when it had last rained in Neverland. Sure, it rained /around/ Neverland to prevent strangers from coming but that was it, nothing more. It had never rained in Neverland, not fresh water, at least. Peter thought that once, perhaps, it had rained but it hadn't been pleasant and so he had wished to prevent rain furthermore. Anyway, the lightning and thunder had frightened the youngest Boys, to the point of which they couldn't sleep so Peter had promised it would not return. And so it hadn't.

"Just a little ways away," Peter said, keeping his eyes firmly set ahead.

The trees dispersed out to a packed sand pathway until the entrance to the camp came into view. The entrance was bordered off by a high wall of thick logs and hacked tree trunks, once sharpened all to a malicious point, now a gnawed level bump of carved wood. The entrance would've been more intimidating had it not been gnawed down and chewed by animals, but even so, Charming felt himself tense.

"We're going in there?" He asked.

"Breaking in, actually," Peter said, bending to place his pails down. Peter walked past Charming, to the barrier of intimidating height.

Charming watched Peter, wondering if perhaps he was going to try his luck at scaling it. Instead he rapped his fist against a trunk and did so multiple times until a hollow sound resonated back, echoing against the uneasy silence between the Forest and the camp.

"Didn't you say it was abandoned?" Charming asked, gazing up at the chewed down stumps protruding skyward.

"Well, by the living it is," Peter began, "but the natives have very different beliefs than you or I. They stay even after Death leaves its mark. They stay to protect, to inform, to tell the story of their lives. They're a reminder of something I can never remember, no matter how many times they tell it."

"What?" Charming asked; Peter seemed to be speaking in intricate riddles. "What are you talking about?"

Peter sighed. "You'll see soon enough." Peter rapped his fist a few times in the same spot, getting the same hollow sound back. Eventually, Peter bent and picked a severed spearhead from the ground; Charming just noticed the ground was covered in weapons or at least the fragments of them. They cracked under his feet, digging into the red dirt because of his weight.

Charming's attention was diverted as he heard the splintering of wood. Peter was stabbing at the hollowed truck until there was an jagged hole, wide as an ugly maw. There was something in the hole besides splinters and termites, though; it stuck out, half of it hidden, parts of it crushed. Still, when Peter pulled it out, Charming's stomach rolled, his throat seized up.

It was a hand, at least it had originally been. It was now the bone remnants of one, dusted tan instead of bleached white. Peter pulled it, trying to tug it from the hole; it was just their luck for it to stop abruptly against the wooden barrier, indicating it was still attached to _something_ on the other side.

Peter sighed, letting the boney hand fall back from his thumb and pointer finger. "We'll have to go around it, then," Peter said, repositioning his hold on the spearhead. He was about to bring it down hard against the wood when Charming asked, "We're going through that hole?"

Peter sighed tiredly. These adults really were stupid. "Yes," He replied irritably.

Charming looked at the hole, maybe a little larger than a fist. "We'll never fit through that," Charming said.

Peter rolled his eyes. "_Really_? Wish I would've known that before you pointed it out; what would I do without you, Prince?"

Charming ignored the sarcasm in his tone and instead watched Peter stab at the hole, trying to widen it. "It'd be easier to do if _two _of us did this," He said.

"Then why don't you hop off your high horse and help?" Peter said, turning his head to give Charming a rather spiteful glare on his part.

Charming pursed his lips, placing his own pails down and grabbing his own weapon - a snapped off sword blade. "If you didn't want my help, then why did you ask me along?"

"I was wishing you would get the point and turn back around," Peter said, turning his back to Charming, "but you're too loyal for that, aren't you?"

Charming contemplated shoving his sword bit up Peter's -

"I wouldn't," Peter said, taking both hands now to shave at the hole. "Then you'd have carry me _and_ four full pails of water; I wouldn't want you to hurt yourself, Prince."

"Don't call me that," Charming snapped, cutting into the wood for the first time now. The wood was dry, full of air pockets and bugs; they all poured out with each cut, as if they were a sick spout of unclean constantly moving water.

"I like to, though, only because it irritates you," Peter said, but not even a moment later, he asked, "What do you prefer I call you, then?"

"David. My name's David," Charming said, ripping a wide chunk of wood from the barrier. "I'm not a prince, either. That was my brother. I'm just some farm boy who had the bad luck to get forced into the royalty game."

"I hear it isn't a very fun game," Peter commented, glancing over to Charming. "But what do I know? I've been in Neverland for ages; I wouldn't exactly understand your putrid concept of ... What is it again?"

"Government," Charming said.

"Government," Peter tried, though it sounded foreign on his tongue. "It even sounds horrid. That's why we don't have that G-word in Neverland; it creates a rift between the lads and myself. We're a family. That's it. We take care of one another."

Charming thought the concept of family would've been more foreign to someone such as Peter Pan, but apparently not, as it seemed. Family to Peter meant more than selfish gain, and for that, even Charming had to respect the kid.

"Alright, David," Peter said, when their hole was of wider berth, "I'll go in. Keep your eye out for ... Well, keep your eye out for everything. Hand me the buckets through the hole and I'll fill them and hand them back."

"You don't want me to come along?" Charming asked, a little perturbed by this.

"No," Peter said, too quickly for Charming's liking. "No, I think I should go alone for this one. Just stay here, alright? I'll be right back," with that, he took a single bucket and somehow managed to push himself through the hole, gaining none too many splinters, as if he had done this before plenty of times.

"Alright, then," Charming said. "Good talk."

...

The lads weren't having as much fun with Felix as they had with Peter; so much was certain as Felix watched and critiqued them, looking for fine points he would have to sever and those he would have to heighten.

They seemed sadder to Felix. As if they _missed _Peter.

Felix knew that was a pompous idea on his part, but he could practically _see _how much they missed Peter, as if he had been a larger part to them all than he had orginally thought. He'd heard the Boys whispering to each other, telling stories to one another in the secrecy of shadow and the flicker of the hearth, stories of Peter doing outrageous things that had never bloody happened - stories he had told himself after he'd gone adventuring alone, stories he had been forced to ablib when the lads had asked him to retell it.

Felix knew Peter had been lying of it, he hadn't any proof any of this had happened - even so, Felix was beginning to believe the stories, as well. With the stories circulating, it was hard to decipher truth from lies. He had only been gone a few days, but even so, his entire story had been tangled and twisted worse than a wicker basket. Felix wasn't sure if he could believe his own memory - and so he used that uncertainty to his advantage one morning, when all the lads were awakened, their growling stomachs together a defeaning roar of accusation.

Felix had actually woken them to the smell of sizzling boar leg - the _last _of the boar Peter had hunted down with his Boys before he'd been forced out. He looked up and smiled, taking in the hunger glazing over the Boys' eyes, the flick of tongues over dry lips, the contemporary snarl of hungry tummies. Felix picked the boar leg off the spit above the hearth, dangling it by the greasy bone with his fingertips. He would tease them, turning it slightly to the left, then quickly to the right, so that their heads turned in tune with the movement of the smokey leg.

He then did a dastardly thing; he looked them all each in turn before taking a large bite from the boar leg. He made the annoying sounds of one who had horrid table manners; the smacking of lips, the little sounds of delicious arousal towards the taste of the leg, chewing the leg clean before tossing it to the Boys. A Boy caught it in his hand but he looked up and gave Felix a look of utter hatred, handing the bone off to a younger lad, who chewed further into the marrow than Felix had.

Felix licked his lips, slapping his hands together. "Alright, lads," He said, "now that I've had breakfast, why don't we work on getting you all some, eh?"

The Boys all nodded in agreement, their stomachs complaining at both the teasing of food from Felix and the prospect of filling their angry stomachs.

"_But_," Felix said, "We're not going as Boys, anymore, lads. We're going as Demons, monsters, _killers_. Can you all do that?"

A lot of the Boys nodded, only for the sake of the rest of the lads who didn't understand.

"Alright, then," He said. "Grab your spears. We're going hunting."

...

"Has he come to yet?" Emma asked over Hook's shoulder, watching the boy named Harold sleep against the cot.

"Does he look as if he has?" Killian asked; he hadn't meant to come off so snarky but he was tired and suffering of withdrawl from his now empty bottle of rum. The empty bottle seemed too light against his blisteringly hot chest, as he had tucked it between himself and his vest out of force of habit.

"Well, no," Emma said, "but just because he seems asleep doesn't mean he's unconcious."

Killian turned to Emma; he quirked an eyebrow, looking at her as if she were mental. "You know," He said, "you make no sense at all."

"Yeah, well, I can hardly understand you when you talk," Emma countered. "So I guess we're even."

The two sat together, watching the Boy sleep. Hook had orginally been dressing his gores, though many of them were clotted with dirt and whatever the boars had been orginally eating. They'd decided to wait for Peter and Charming to come back from the encampment with the water.

Henry sat with Snow and Regina at the table, though Henry wished to get up and look to the things Peter had collected over his years in Neverland. They were all over the room; on tables, in cupboards, behind false sections of wall, in the ashes of the hearth.

It was surprising how many Lost things must've come to Neverland, washed upon the shore; there were many games and toys, like the red-hot metal jacks under the blocks of wood of the fiery hearth; a broken wooden horse with pinkened wheels and a rope harness; books upon books, letters upon letters, bottles of many different coloured glasses.

There were maps on the walls of marvelous places - one of them of the nonmagical world, much like the maps Henry had seen in his school textbooks; a map of what Henry suspected must've been Wonderland, as there were multiple landmarks he recalled from reading of it; The Black Forest of Germany told by the Brothers Grimm; a street map of an olden town of London. There were many more maps, though these were harder to decipher since many of them had once been water-logged or burnt or aged enough that the ink seemed to have come off the page.

There was a missing space in the wall of maps and Henry had the mind to figure it had been one of Neverland. He hadn't a clue why it would be missing, but it was and the fact that it was bothered him for a reason he didn't know. Perhaps why Peter would've needed a map of Neverland in the first place, if this had been his home.

"We should start preparing the boars," Snow said, standing; she had been worrying herself in silence with her thoughts of Charming and decided she needed to do something other than sit around. She grabbed a boar by a tusk and pulled her knife from her side sheath.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Emma had turned and seen her mother draw the blade. "I _really _don't think the place to do that is here."

"What?" Snow asked, holding her blade aloft from the dead pig.

"The blood," Emma said. The room was already heavy with the scent from the Boy's wounds. "Isn't there an easier way to do that?" She glanced over to Regina.

Regina scoffed. "Me? Why do I have to do it?"

"Because you're the only one who knows a spell to," Emma said, as if were obvious.

Regina rolled her eyes, looking to Emma in disbelief. "If it's that simple, can't I give you a spell?"

Emma pursed her lips. She stood up and away from Hook. "Yeah, sure, give me a spell. I'll do it then and you can look over the kid."

Regina looked between the pigs and Harold, as if both seemed equally destestable. She bit the inside of her cheek before standing. "Alright. Fine. Just don't screw up."

"With what?" Emma asked, wanting to hear Regina say it aloud.

Regina shot Emma a glare. "Watching the kid," She said, her teeth snapping together.

Emma smiled, taking her seat once again beside Hook. "Alright, then," Emma said over her shoulder as Regina neared the pigs, a look of disgust painted on her face. "Have fun."

...

"Are you having fun yet?" Felix shouted, watching his Demons at work, as they all hunted together as a single monster, a single bloodthirsty animal, tearing boars and monkeys limb from limb, painting themselves and the ground a bloody red.

One of the Boys turned to look at Felix from his grip on a shrieking monkey; he looked down at the monkey's terrified face, at the streaks of colour over its grey fur, like markings of respect, of power, authority. The Boy looked down, his grip loosening on the monkey's neck ever so slightly as his lips parted. What was he doing? What were _any _of them doing? He didn't know. All he knew was he was hungry - he hadn't eaten in days - and the monkey was bleeding all over his hands and when it would shake, when it would struggle, the blood looked like rain and the shrieks sounded like thunder as it hit his ears like the chafe of a forebading hand and he couldn't help it, couldn't stop his instinct, the animal inside of him.

The Boy's fingers closed around the monkey's furry throat and he applied pressure until the shrieking subsided in chokes and the monkey bared its red-tipped fangs in a last attempt to frighten him off - but without the thunder and without the rain, the Boy wasn't frightened. He was only hungry.

Hunger was all the feeling Demons ever needed.

...

Peter hurried through the encampment, the last of the buckets in his tight grip. Peter kept his eyes down, though the ground wasn't exactly pleasant. It was stained with old blood of the last War he had only heard stories of though he was sure he had been here when the war had happened - 'least the spirits made it obvious to him that he had.

Peter tried not to look at the remains of the wartorn village; he chose to sidestep over bones and broken spear shafts, over tattered memories Peter wished he could've kept locked away and forgotten. Peter didn't know what had even really happened - all he knew was all the dead spoke of it in whispers and explained it when it grew dark. That was how Peter had found his way in, to hear the story.

He'd wished he hadn't been curious.

Peter froze, finally getting to the spring. It was an irredescent circle of deep water and when he knelt down near it, he was met by his reflection. Peter didn't wish to see himself, not like this. His lips were covered in dried bloody scabs, his eyes darkened by smudges, his face pale and ghostly. He dipped the bucket down, seeing the white shades of the dead past him in wisps of breeze, whispering the story again, running icy fingers through his tousled hair, over his face, cupping his chin and his cheeks, anything they could touch.

Peter's swallow crackled in his ears as the ripples of the spring distorted his image. They were starting from the beginning, Peter knew, and he wished to leave before they got very far into their retelling.

"Long ago, long forgotten," A croaky voice like the scratch of a branch against the ground groaned near Peter's ear, near his tensed shoulders, "there was a war that tore apart our haven. A war, they say, over Man's desire - the desire to be young forever.

"The natives of the island had been kind to the strangers whom were shipwrecked," An elderly voice, like that of a grandmother said. "A likely story, one they'd quite a few times, a story they trusted. But these strangers were different - even shipwrecked, they didn't repair their ship as the others had. Instead, these strangers explored.

"The strangers explored the strange land," Another voice, a youthful male voice this time, "used the natives and the island for granted. They said they only were looking for wood to repair their ship, then they'd leave - but they were searching for something foreign to them - something they were tempted to steal away.

"And steal away, they did," An irritated voice of a gravely old man said. "Stole our food, our crop, our land, our lives!"

"Calm," An authoritive male voice commanded. "So they did. We cannot change the past, we can only retell it. That is our job - to prevent this from happening once again."

"This isn't the story he needs, though," The grandmotherly voice spoke up. "He needs the one of _his _first War, not ours."

"He was there," The old man's voice piped up. "He should know."

"He chooses to forget that one," The grandmother said. "We have a job, to remind him of the war he needs to remember, not the one that concerns ourselves. We're gone; he isn't."

"Then, tell him then," The old man snapped.

"The war you must recall," The authoritive male voice said, "is the war of the Lost."

"War of the Lost?" Peter asked; his hands were cold, being in the water so long. He'd forgotten of the bucket in his hands.

"Yes. Your first war, your first betrayal. This has all happened before, Peter, and it will all happen again, if you do not remember your first," The voice sounded familar now but Peter couldn't pinpoint in his memory whom the voice belonged to.

"But I don't remember," Peter said, anguish coming through in his voice, "I _can't _remember."

"Surely you can, boy," The voice continued, "but only if you are a proper audience to the Wind."

Peter felt the breeze; it grabbed at his clothes, picking up leaves and scraps of thin leather, bits of parchment and ashes. The wind picked all these things and soon, they were in place of the white shades of not the dead natives but dead Boys Peter had wished had been nameless. But, no, it is never that easy, letting go.

And so, he named them off, one by one, in his mind, the words leaving his tongue without his knowing; he didn't know of the tears that slickened his cheeks, that sent ripples across the spring's mirrorlike image.

Then, there was one of them that made Peter's emotions switch dramatically to one of fierce hatred - _Benedict. _It was obvious which one was him; he was tall and far more menacing than the rest of the lads. He held two swords and turned to Peter, as if declaring him to a duel.

Peter held his head high, pulling the bucket from the spring with numb hands. He let it drop into the Spring of Tears, though it didn't concern him, not anymore. He let it sink, pulling his knife from its sheath and flexing his fingers along the hilt.

_Your heart, _Benedict's voice was painful to hear, as if knives were being thrust into Peter's ears. _It's mine._

"No," Peter replied coldly, flicking his knife so that it glittered along its sharp blade. "It's no one's."

Peter leapt forward first, thrusting his knife to the space of Benedict's leafen chest. Benedict fell back and parried the swipe with a flash of a single ghost blade, then the flash of a second. Peter's blade was between two other's, the sound defeaning.

_He's only a memory, Peter, he can't kill you, he's a cheater, he can't win._

Peter brought his leg up and kicked away one blade so that it clattered from his hand. Peter smirked, turning his knife quickly so that it knicked Benedict's leather hand.

_Is your heart truly no one's, Peter? _Benedict's voice assualted Peter and he wanted to push it from his mind. _It seems you've replaced it back to its proper spot. Though I don't exactly think being heart_ful _is your style._

"You haven't got a clue what my style is," Peter snarled. "I change it constantly."

Benedict pulled his sword away, thrusting it downward; it cut through Peter's belt and Peter looked down at it, his knife now in his other hand.

_Seems I've changed it a bit as well, _Benedict chortled.

Peter kicked the leather belt aside. "I can always fashion a new one," He said. "Though it isn't as if you can fashion yourself a new _body_, can you, _Benny_?"

_Funny you should ask, lad, _Peter could hear the smirk in his voice. _I already have found myself a host. A nice one, too, and we have many things in common. Our desire for you is one. Then, there's always the scar, isn't there? Your little marking of betrayal._

Peter looked at the memory of Benedict; he was only Peter's imagination. Benedict was _dead. _Peter had killed him himself.

_Your version's been twisted, Pete, _Benedict crooned. _You never killed me. You let your second-in command take care of it, hadn't you? He never did, never fully. He may've destroyed my body but he didn't destroy our connection - I'm still in his head, Peter. I'm driving him mad. _You're _driving him mad. As are you to me._

Peter dropped his knife, slamming his hands over his ears. He could still hear him, could hear Benedict's breathing, his laughter at Peter's being pathetic. Being weak. Peter dug his fingers into the holes of his ears, trying to drown him out.

_I'm in your head, too, Peter, _Benedict laughed. _You can't get rid of me that easily._

Peter squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the world.

_I'm here, forever stuck, _Benedict snarled. _But isn't that what you wanted, you sick twisted bastard -_

A slice of air cut through Peter and Benedict's conversation. Peter slowly opened his eyes, one at a time, to see Charming - _David _- standing before him, a pile of leaves and leather scraps at his feet, his sword tight in both his hands. He was panting, as if he'd run. "You okay?" Charming asked.

Peter nodded, pulling his hands from his ears. Peter glanced at the Spring, at the sunken bucket. "Oh, no," He groaned, rushing forward but Charming walked a few steps and threw his arm out.

"It's alright," Charming said, "we have three buckets, that'll be enough. Let's ... Let's go ... Home. Let's go home."

Peter blinked, staring at Charming, at his concerned blue eyes. Peter wasn't sure if he was concerned of Peter or of his Fate to never leave Neverland. Peter glanced at his feet, nodding. "Yeah. Let's go home, then."

...

The first thing Harold tried to do when he woke up was take a swallow of something other than the ugly taste of his own bloody saliva, even though just swallowing was a pain for him. It would've been for anybody without a tongue.

Harold wanted to retch, but he hadn't any food in his stomach to do so. He wasn't even sure if he could eat, without his tongue. He shouldn't have been very concerned about this but to any boy, Lost or no, food was always a thing worthy of worry.

Harold was also worried by the sensations he was feeling - the warmth of a fire, himself without a shirt, his hurt body. He would've turned back over and went to sleep hadn't his first thought been of Death.

_They're burning me alive for running, _He thought. _They'll burn off my feet next, till they're stumps. Then they'll feed me to some pack of cannibalistic buggers, they will. My bones'll be licked clean in five minutes, tops._

Harold felt something then and he bristled, expecting it to be a red-hot iron being dug into his flesh. Instead, it was silky, cotton, soft - a bandage.

Like the ones Peter made.

Harold's eyes snapped open. He stared at the golden-haired woman and untrimmed pirate before him, the woman redressing a wound on his hip. Harold narrowed his eyes at her and the pirate glanced up, took in the look he was giving the girl and muttered, in a very low voice, "He's awake, love."

The woman looked up, meeting Harold's gaze. He looked around. They were in an old place he could barely recall as Peter's hideout, the one he'd taken them to as a hideaway from Benedict during the last War. The walls were still covered in maps, the floor still dirt, the hearth still glowing - but there were people living in Peter's hideaway and no Peter among them.

To make matters worse, they were _adults._ Four of them, three of them armed, from what Harold could tell. His eyes darted across the room, taking it in - and then the smell of toasting boar caught his attention.

Harold breathed in the scent heavily - he had never been so hungry in his life. There was raven-haired woman tending to the hearth and pig dangling from the spit. He wanted food and he wanted it _now._

Harold tried to push himself from the cot. He was pushed back down by the woman and Harold glared at her, the two competing in a contest of wills, one he had been champion at, second to Peter.

Harold could've gone longer had the woman not looked away at the familar voice to the two, the voice of The Truest Believer. Harold turned as well, feeling pride at beating the woman at the unspoken game; he soon forgot of it as the boy, Henry, looked at him, recognised him. "I guess you are awake, then," He said, smiling slightly, innocently.

Harold swallowed more bloody salvia. He wanted to ask him where Peter was but of course, he couldn't. He sighed, a little despairingly.

"Peter'll be back with water," Henry said, staring back at Felix, the smile still on his face. "Are you hungry, though? We've got food if you want some now."

Harold looked quickly to the skinned boar, as it turned by itself without the raven woman's manual movement. The hunger must've shone in his eyes.

"Here, I'll get you some," Henry said, standing up and walking to the hearth. the raven woman turned as Henry stared intently at the cooking boar; he reached out a tenative hand, and when the adults were all about to shout, he snapped his fingers and the leg slipped from the socket of the boar as if it were sludge.

Henry forced it to hover until he'd grabbed a leather mat to fold around the bits of meat. He allowed them to fall into the leather, though when he turned, he looked at him. "You can't eat this, can you?"

Harold stared at him, his mouth going dry. How did he know?

The blonde woman glanced at Henry. "Why wouldn't he be able to eat?"

Henry shrugged. "I just ... have a feeling he can't." Henry walked over to him, looked intently at his face. "Am I right?"

Harold tried to speak, he did, but the only sound to come out was a choked incoherent noise emitted by his throat muscles.

The woman and pirate backed up quickly.

"Ah, mate," The pirate spoke, shaking his head in disbelief. "I can't believe it."

Harold didn't look at the pirate nor the golden girl; instead he looked to Henry. He raised an eyebrow in question.

"I-I don't know how I know," He said quickly. "I could just ... see it on your face."

Harold looked down at his bare feet, an inch or so from the dirt ground.

They would've continued trying to figure what was going on, had Charming not come through the door with Peter. They were amiss a bucket but didn't explain it, as Peter had caught sight of Harold sitting up.

"Harold!" Peter cried, grinning widely. "Boy, am I glad to see you up! Come on, get up, stuff your face, lad, before you tell me all about how you came to those pigs' tusks."

Harold didn't make to move, though. Peter furrowed his brow, placing his bucket on the stone table. "Is something wrong?"

"It seems, mate," Killian began softly, "that your lad, Felix, has gone a bit medieval."

"What do you mean?" Peter asked, looking quickly to Harold. "What does he mean?"

"Oh, mate," Killian began, "he won't be saying much."

* * *

**Tell 'im easy, Killian, damn**

**Benedict is a little asshole I hate him so much**

**((another headcanon that there have been multiple wars before this one, Peter just forgets them all and one of them killed all of the Natives originally on Neverland))**

**oh and Benedict was the first guy after Peter's heart (as this has all happened before and it will happen again) but now it's Felix**

**I don't even know anymore.**

**So you have two bad guys to worry about. [Flynn Rider voice] _Yay!_**

**((and the episode tonight, I'm sorry, let me go cry now))**

**and to the few who are requesting bits of the story to be elaborated/done, I will most likely do them if I remember when the time comes and to the one who asked about the locket bit, I was wondering if you wanted that as a one shot or part of the story?**

**That is all.**

**((oh and I love you guys so much okay)) **


	7. Safe Haven

**Chapter Seven: Safe Haven**

"_I'm not young enough to know everything_." - _Peter Pan_

Peter was almost glad Harold couldn't speak, fore even if he could, Peter wouldn't have heard him over the thundering roar of blood in his ears.

Peter wanted to kill Felix right now. Or was it Benedict? He could hardly tell the difference anymore. They were the same to him - or at least they should have been. Benedict _was_ Felix now. There was no saving whatever was left of Peter's former second-in command; to Peter, he should've been gone, another lost face in the scroll of faces Peter would always cease to forget.

Instead, Peter knew most of this was Benedict's doing. Without Benedict, Felix would've remained sane, or at least as sane as he was before. He wouldn't have acted so rashly, he wouldn't have taken control, he wouldn't be causing a war, he wouldn't be ripping out tongues and most importantly, he wouldn't have kissed Peter that night - or so Peter convinced himself (not very well, as the cuts still stung, especially at the mention) but it was enough for Peter to force himself to blame Benedict for all the trouble he'd ever caused him.

And to think, that Benedict had been Peter's first second-in command, once upon a time ago, when all his lads had been innocent and tortured and haunted by their lives of before - the lives Peter had renewed by bringing them to his island and letting them become a part of a family that wouldn't leave any of them behind.

Peter reclenched his fists and bit down hard on one of his knuckles. Blood spurted from the thin pale skin and his teeth clinked against bone. His eyebrows furrowed - his skin had never been that easy to break before.

Peter swallowed. He and Neverland were less powerful than Peter had orginally thought; before, his skin had been unpenetrable by blade, the Arts and physical afflictions - now, he was bleeding from a simple nip to his skin, inflicted by himself. Peter didn't want to see what a sharpened edge would do to him with a force behind it.

Harold watched Peter closely, watched the blood roll off his bleached knuckles. He knew he was thinking and Peter's thinking was dangerous, lethal, in fact. Harold wished he would say something, so that he would be aware of his course of thoughts, aware enough to be able to try to convince him out of it. He'd always been one with words, Harold - but now, he was without his one useful weapon.

Peter stood and walked silently to Henry and took the food from him. Henry glanced to Peter's face, looking for any indication of what he was about to do. Peter cast his glance to Harold. "You can't eat this, then?"

Harold shrugged.

Peter looked down to the bits of torched boar. He sighed, almost painfully, then handed it to Harold. "Hold that," Peter instructed, walking to a set of wooden cupboards. He opened one and stood on his tip-toes to look inside. It empty besides a spider larger than the one that had attacked Peter; it leapt for his face but Peter slammed it shut, cutting through a feeler that fell to the floor and twitched as the spider let out outraged shrieks from behind the wooden door.

Peter glanced over his shoulder to the adults, Henry and Harold. "I meant for that to happen," Peter said, slightly unsettled. He kept a hand on the one shaking cabinet as he moved to the next. Empty, besides cobwebs and a pair of smoking red eyes that glared back at Peter. Peter replaced the door quickly.

The very last cupboard had what Peter was searching for - a thin vial, practically full of golden dust. Peter wrapped his fist around it and pulled it from its place amid a maze of spindly webs. Peter then turned and momentarily forgot of the raged spider throwing itself upon the closed cupboard door, as he left it to cross the room to Harold.

Harold looked to the vial in Peter's fist. Peter looked to Harold and saw the cross look in Harold's eyes. Harold shook his head quickly.

Peter rolled his eyes. "Harold, it's the only way you can eat it - "

Harold feverishly shook his head. He tried to tell him, 'No,' but it turned out more so an indignant rip from his throat.

Peter glared at Harold. "Harold, stop acting childish, alright? You don't eat, you die, simple as that. How many days have you gone unfed like this?"

Harold looked away, to the strips of boar in his hands. The hunger glazed over Harold's eyes and Peter swallowed tightly. "How many days?"

Harold held up a single hand and raised four fingers.

Peter blanched, his fury darkening his eyes as he shouted, "Four days? _Four days_?! He hasn't fed you for - "

Harold looked up and the defeated look in his eyes told Peter exactly what he didn't need to know.

"He hasn't," Peter's words faltered. "He hasn't fed _anyone_ in ... four days?" Peter took a step back, his eyes distant.

He began to go back through the scroll of faces again, naming off names, seeing the lads as he had first met them. Detached, unloved, forgotten, abandoned - and now, he'd done it to them again. He'd left them ... to save his own skin. He was no better than their parents, the adults. He'd let them down, he'd always let them down ...

Peter hadn't known he'd been stepping back until he hit his bruised tailbone hard against the stone table. Peter winced in horrible pain, his hand moving quickly to the smarted spot. The spider in the cabinet finally found its way out and launched itself to the back of Peter's head.

Harold leapt to his feet as he watched the spider attack Peter from behind; Peter was disoriented, unfocused and so he furiously grabbed at it but his grasping hands met nothing in return. Finally, just as Harold had ran his way over to Peter in order to help him, Peter had grapsed the spider and thrown it to the dirt. He then plucked the winded spider up and walked to the door, thrown it open and tossed it out.

Peter turned, knowing if he had been alone, how easily he would've tossed the spider to the flames and let them consume it. He would've crushed it underfoot until it was nothing but the smashed-through remains of an exoskeleton. Peter looked to Harold, who had stood to help him. Peter growled, sternly, "Sit back down and listen to me, as I can't see you doing much talking."

Harold blinked at Peter's uncommon sterness with him. Harold held up a hand to interject his opinion on the matter when Peter raised an eyebrow at an incredible height. Harold's lip twitched before he turned and retook his seat.

Peter nodded, walking to him. "Hold out your hands with the meat in them," Peter commanded. Harold shot Peter a look before complying, as he was very hungry. Peter uncorked the vial with his teeth and tipped it to the side; he allowed a minimal amount of Dust to sprinkle down on the meat, turning it a starchy brown liquid. Peter recorked the vial and glanced to Harold's eyes. "It's the best I can do, Harry."

Harold looked down at the liquid and unceremoniously gulped it down with his dirt- and blood-caked hands. When he was finished, he wiped his lips on his bare arm before standing. Peter looked to him quizically before he was wrapped into a hug; Peter immeaditly stiffened at the touch.

Peter swallowed, awkwardly crossing his arm to Harold's back to pat him on the shoulder. "'Welcome," Peter said, trying not to sound completely conflicted by this act of compassion. Peter glanced around the room, waiting for Harold to let go. He was making a little noise that Peter couldn't figure what exactly it was - until he recognised it as tortured sobbing.

Peter unwrapped Harold's arms from his waist, peering to his face, streaked with seemingly orange streams of water through the dirt on his face. Harold's eyes held such hurt emotion that Peter hadn't a clue what they could mean - and he was trying to say something - _a word, _Peter realised. Peter held up a finger for him to wait before he rushed to the tables of Lost things - he grabbed a sheet of crinkled parchment and a bit of charcoal before turning and handing it to him. Peter jerked his head in a nod for Harold to write what he was trying to say.

Harold took the charcoal and paper and with a shaking hand and glistening eyes, he wrote three words before holding it out for Peter to see: _They killed Cian._

Peter stared ahead at Harold, disbelieving. Peter shook his head. "They didn't."

Harold closed his eyes tightly before nodding stiffly. The tear that slipped from his eye rung with the words Harold couldn't speak but Peter could hear; _Yes, they did._

Even now, Peter could feel it, someplace in his chest; a pang, short and quick. A life severed after an agonisingly long time of torture. He'd only recently died - today, it seemed; they hadn't killed Cian with Harold and the rest of the Boys watching. Even so, he was dead and that magic was irreversible.

Harold reopened his eyes and scrawled on the parchment before turning it to show Peter. _I tried to stop them._

Peter nodded. "And they ... They did - ?" Peter trailed off and pointed to his mouth.

Harold nodded. _Felix never liked me much anyways; it was just another reason to cast me aside. He only kept me along because of you._

Peter shook his head. "Harold, that's not true."

_He never tried anything because you were always there. Then you weren't._

Peter looked up, met Harold's eyes; he could see the abandonment fresh in them, like the slickened red of a new wound. Peter sighed. "I never should've left. I should've stayed and stopped him, I should've ... "

Then Peter looked up and found Henry. "But, I couldn't ... He wants to destroy me - he wishes to kill Pan," Peter sent a side glance to Harold. "He wants Neverland and ... and me, for himself. He would've killed all the lads and Henry had I not left and taken him with me; Harold, it isn't even Felix, it's - "

The door to the hut swung open and two men walked in - Neal and Rumple; Neal looked around and his eyes, they first caught sight of Henry, and he smiled and threw his arms wide and he shouted his son's name. Henry turned and grinned and ran to his father's embrace. Rumple, however, stared ahead at Peter, the broken form of his former friend beside a gored Boy holding a sheet of paper.

Peter stood, almost protectively before the Boy beside him. Neal hugged Henry tightly, ruffling his hair, picking him off the ground to squeeze him closer; then Neal looked around the room and caught Peter's face among his family.

"What is he doing here?" Neal asked, replacing Henry to the ground as he took a protective step before his son.

Peter swallowed. "Baelfire," He said, "Pleasure."

Neal's hand went for the sword at his side sheath but Peter shook his head. "No need for that, Bael," Peter was saying. "Wouldn't want you to hurt yourself."

"Me? Hurt _myself_?" Neal stepped forward and, with surprising speed, crossed the distance between them. "I'd be more concerned of my own well-being, if I were you."

Peter met Neal's gaze, trying to ignore the height difference between them or the moustashe beneath Neal's nose. Peter straightened and shot up on his tip-toes. "And, why is that?"

Neal flexed his hand into a tight fist and punched Peter in the face faster than the eye could've comprehended the matter. Peter's head shot to the side and a bruise was already blossoming purple against his cheekbone. Before Neal could retort down to Peter, Emma had sided by Neal and put a hand on his shoulder, preventing him from attacking Peter further. "Neal," She said, "he's with us now. Okay?"

Neal swallowed and flared his nostrils, glancing to Emma. "How are you so sure we can trust him?"

Peter lifted a hand to hover over the ugly molted red now coming through the purpling bruise. It was worse than he'd recieved, he knew, and he deserved much more - for all he'd ever done to Neal and his family, Neal was holding back. Peter cast his eyes down to his feet. "You're not."

Peter looked up, having caught everyone's attention. "You're not sure. That's the thing. You're taking a leap of faith, I suppose, trusting me. The only reason I haven't been cut through is because I'm your only way out of Neverland."

Neal narrowed his eyes at Peter, his jaw popping. "You? Our only way? I got out of here once, I can do it again."

"You're still as naive as you were before you left, Bael," Peter said cooly, his eyebrow shooting up again over the swelling welt under his eye upon his cheek. "You left because I let you. Simple as that. I wanted you to go because upon your leave, you would give me the Truest Believer - and you did, didn't you?"

Neal glared at Peter, stepping closer to him; he jerked his shoulder from Emma's grasp. "What? You _let_ me?"

"Now," Peter said, both eyebrows going up now. "Why is that so hard to believe? This is _my _island; I know whoever comes and goes, whoever lives and dies. I know every name of every lad who has _ever _set a foot on the shore; even the Dreamers. And the few that I allow to leave? I keep tabs on them, as I have with you, as I have with many."

Neal's eyes sparked and he swallowed tightly, anger coursing through his veins. "You kept _tabs _on me? You knew - "

"_Yes_, I knew of your struggles," Peter said, tilting his head forward to look up at Neal, "of finding a place to stay when it grew dark and having to pillage just to make an effort to survive. I tried to help you along; I never fully left you alone but I could never fully leave Neverland, either, so I sent the lads. You remember Harold, don't you? You knew him as Alexander."

Harold looked up from his paper and held it up for Neal to see. _Hi, Neal. You look old._

"Alex?" Neal stared down at his friend from his theiving days; he was wrapped in pinking bandages and Neal shouldered past Peter to get to him. "Alex, I thought - you told me you were going home, a new start, I - "

Harold held up a hand and scribbled over the paper. _I was going home. This is my home, Neal. You had to find your own way without me; and you did, obviously, with that thing under your nose. _Harold smiled slightly, reaching forward so that his finger brushed Neal's facial hair. Harold's eyebrows shot up and he wrinkled his nose, grinning widely as he brought his hand away quickly, as if he were afraid it would bite him.

Neal smiled, his eyes glistening. "Back there," Neal said, jerking his head back to indicate he meant the nonmagical world, "they call it a moustashe."

_It looks more like a furry catepillar, _Harold wrote. _You know, the cannibalistic ones?_

Neal's eyebrows dipped slightly and his smile faltered. "Wh-why is he writing everything?" He asked, turning to look back, his eyes meeting Peter's suddenly pained expression.

"He ... He can't speak," Peter said, trying to tread lightly upon the topic as Neal took a step toward him. "He ... Well, he ... hasn't ... He hasn't got a tongue."

Anger sparked in Neal's eyes. "_What_?" He shouted, taking several menacing steps forward. Peter held up his hands, finding himself once again trapped in place by the stone table bumping his tailbone to which he winced; he felt a flash of the cool stone, a bruised tailbone, Felix's bite tearing his lips and blood pooling from the cuts.

Neal grabbed a hold of Peter's shirt and shouted in his face but Peter couldn't hear it; he couldn't see Neal anymore. He couldn't see the hideaway anymore. He could see Felix, the Forest, could feel the rock preventing his escape. He could feel Felix's hands clenched around Peter's shirt, lifting him from his feet.

Peter threw an arm out and caught Felix across the face; Felix dropped him, quickly, too quickly - he had to be planning something, he had to have thought ahead. Peter looked around; he was surronded by Boys - the Staked Ones. Peter kept looking and then he could see Henry and Harold - _how did Felix get them when they were hidden the whole time? _- Peter had to do something, he had to save them -

Something wrapped around Peter's legs and Peter screamed as his vision went black - _he was blind, he couldn't see, were Henry and Harold alright? _Peter tried to push the thing from his legs but he was caught off balance by something else, he was getting tackled -

"Peter! _Peter, stop!_"

Peter slowly opened his eyes; he was forced to the ground by both David and Rumple, who held him in place against the dirt. Peter was shaking against their tight grip; he was panting, gasping, writhing.

Peter fought the two of them, looking around feverishly. "Where is he?" Peter cried. "Where's Felix? _Where'd he take Henry?!_"

"_Peter,_" David managed, trying to keep Peter down, "Felix isn't here! Peter, Henry's here! He's with us! _You're_ with us!"

"You're safe," Rumple said, flicking his gaze from his grandson to Peter's fearful expression.

Peter stopped fighting altogether. "Safe?" He asked in a quiet voice.

Rumple nodded, him and David taking a breath of relief. "Safe."

...

Felix looked out at the faces of the Demons. They watched him, blood still tainting their mouths, their skin. Felix turned to the few of them standing close to him. "They're there," Felix said, smiling. "Neal made a map of his own."

The Demons stayed silent. Felix looked down at one of them, his eyes dark as shadow, dark with hunger, desire. "You," He said, placing a hand on the lad's shoulder. "You're going to go find them."

The lad nodded slowly, his face shadowed by his cowl. "How?"

"You'll blend in," Felix said, smiling. "Peter'll take any and all broken little Boys, if he has the chance to. There are plenty of those, out there, waiting, running. Why not make a _friends_?"

The lad swallowed. "Okay. When?"

"_Now_," Felix shrieked, pulling a blade from its sheath; as he leapt forward, so did the rest of the Demons, a hoard of shifting shadows going for one.

_Fair game, is it?_

Felix chuckled darkly as he watched the Demons chase the lad out from the camp. He ran and he looked back, just as Peter had. The memory caused the smile to slip off his face and he glared ahead, hearing the voice again, ringing in his ears.

_Now, now, Felix, don't get upset over a memory. That's in past; the only that should concern you is getting Peter back and killing Pan. Isn't that what you want?_

Felix nodded.

_Good, good. Now, why don't we take a closer inspectition of that map of yours? I'd like to see the second X you were thinking of earlier._

* * *

**I don't even know what I'm doing anyone this is a filler lol help me my feelings**

**I'm anxious about tonight's episode. fuck**

**aND NEAL AND RUMPLE JUST APPEARED OKAY STOP I'VE BEEN LAYING HERE TYPING SHIT SINCE LIKE 10 IN THE MORNING **

**and Neal's getting slappy damn**

**I just ... -flops to the side- I'm sorry, for what, I do not recall**

**But I shall apologise anyways**

**and Neal and Harold/Alexander as old partners is the cutest, the fluff omfg**

**and Peter was all concerned for him**

**I ship it, the three of them, I ship it**

_**I ship it hardcore, man, it's bad**_


	8. The Brightest Star

**Chapter Eight: The Brightest Star**

_"It is not in the least alarming, but in the two minutes before you go to sleep it becomes very nearly real. That is why there are night-lights."_ -_Peter Pan_

* * *

Henry tried his best to eat his fill of boar meat, but he was simply thinking too many things at once to pay attention to something as trivial as his appetite. His eyes kept darting to Peter, whom sat rigidly beside him on the dirt floor, his share of boar still upon the spit, his eyes cast down to his hands, bruised and bloodied from fighting back against the three grown men.

Henry scooted a little closer to him, and, keeping his eyes on Peter's face, held a strip of his meat out to him. Peter looked up at the movement and glanced to the bit of meat in Henry's hand. "I'm not much at all hungry," Peter said, brushing him off.

Henry furrowed his eyebrows, holding the meat out pointedly. "Just take it," Henry said.

Peter sighed and snatched the meat from Henry's hand, before shooting him a rather spiteful glare to show he was only complying for Henry not to bother him any longer. Peter looked away quickly, back to inspecting his hands, now holding the strip of meat. Peter didn't make a move to eat it.

Henry turned his attention back to his own meat in his pale hands. He sighed quietly and looked at it and decided he wasn't very hungry, either.

"Henry," Regina asked, noticing her son's behaviour, "are you not hungry?"

Henry shook his head, keeping his eyes on the meat.

Regina pursed her lips and glanced to Emma and Neal sitting near her. Neal thought her a second, glancing at his son. "Well," Neal began, "maybe you just don't like boar. It's an aquired taste, isn't it? A bit tough?"

Henry looked up, meeting his father's slightly hopeful gaze. Henry nodded. "Yeah, I guess."

Neal smiled and Peter looked up, glancing between Neal and Henry. Peter knew that look in Neal's eyes; it was just the same as the one Peter had seen on plenty of other lads'. Peter had to smile at Neal's cleverness (though he'd never admit it aloud); Neal was going to let Henry flex his powers even more so in an act of fatherly guidance.

"Alright, well, Henry," Neal was saying, "what's your favourite food? What do you want?"

Henry glanced at Neal. "I don't know."

"It can be anything, Henry," Neal insisted. "Anything at all."

Henry thought back, biting his lip. "Pizza. I want pizza," He said, nodding sheepishly.

"Don't tell me that," Neal said, barely able to contain his grin now. "Wish it."

"Wish it?" Henry asked; looking around, he realised that his family was sharing a similar smile to his father. Henry glanced to Peter and saw him mouth under his breath, _What's a pizza?_

"Come on, kid," Emma said, smiling widely; she rubbed her hands together. "Wish us an entire box; I've been dying for some pepperoni."

Peter raised his eyebrows in surprise; Emma seemed fine.

Henry smiled and nodded, looking around at his family. "Okay, so a pepperoni. Any others?"

As Henry took orders from his family, Hook and Peter shared a similarly confused look. Peter turned to Harold behind him, who sat back in his cot. Harold gave a shrug at Peter's quizzical eyebrow arch.

Henry sighed, rubbing his hands slightly together near the licking flames of the fire. "Okay," He said, taking a deep breath. He closed his eyes and thought extremely hard, enough that he was sure his head might burst.

Henry opened his eyes, glancing about. Nothing had happened.

"Believe, Henry," Neal said, watching his son intently.

_All you have to do is believe, _Henry could hear Peter's voice in his head and he nodded along to it, closing his eyes once again. _If you believe, anything is possible._

A string of gasps erupted around the room as if it were synchronised; Peter wasn't entirely surprised, though he wasn't sure what was in the boxes that had appeared before Henry, over the fire. Emma reached out and plucked them from the air, a smile suddenly on her face. "Henry," She said, her voice awestruck, "_look_."

Henry opened his eyes and when he caught sight of the pizza boxes, he let out a laugh of relief and of pure joy. It was a beautiful sound, much like Peter's pipes, at least he thought; Peter yearned to hear it, a sound of breathless, unguarded joy. It was even better coming from Henry.

It didn't matter that Peter hadn't a clue as to what Henry had believed into existence; fore all that mattered was Henry's belief and his happiness - more-so his happiness. Since Henry had come to the island, Peter's first impressions had changed remarkably around his Truest Believer; he was more concerned for Henry's happiness than of what his heart contained.

Peter was ever-so slowly slipping down a spiral, a spiral he had known once before but had decided to forget, as he had with every love he had ever loved, every love he had ever lost.

All Lost things ended up in Neverland for a reason and that was to be found. For the first time, Peter believed he had been found instead of him finding Henry.

...

Judas tried to see through the black darkness of the Forest; his legs burned from running so long, his arms ached and he was out of breath, his lungs constricted from the humid air and the panic strickening his chest. He could still hear them - the thudding of footfalls, the shouts of the Staked, the Demons. It was terrifying, especially in the dark; not even the pinpricks of the stars could break through the canopy above, only darkening both Judas' chances of seeing his escape and actually making it out of the Forest to someplace safe. Though, Judas wasn't entirely sure what _was _safe anymore.

He hid behind a tree, its hard bark biting his numb fingers as he pressed his back to it, turning his head to listen to the noises of the Forest, to hear how close the Demons were to his current hiding place. Judas' heartbeat hitched when he felt a hand curl around his ankle and pull him down amid the bushes by his feet; a hand clamped over his mouth and a whisper snarled in his ear for him to stay quiet.

The sounds of stomping feet passed nearly right over them; the shadows of the Demons slinked along the forest floor by the dancing light of the torches they carried. Eventually the voices and the footfalls faded and the Forest was once again quiet and dark. The hand lifted from Judas' mouth and the mouth near Judas' ear let out a low whistle.

The form beside Judas began to push himself up from the bush; Judas followed. He looked around the Forest; he could see forms poking out from behind trees, up out of bushes, legs dangling from atop branches. They were darker than the orginal darkness of the Forest, which was the only significant way to figure that Judas was surrounded by other Boys.

The one beside him asked, his voice low, "You were running, too?"

Judas nodded. "Yes."

The Boy looked to him and Judas felt a hand on his shoulder. "Stick with us, then. What's your name, kid?"

"Judas," Judas said.

The Boy nodded. "Well, nice to meet you, Judas, despite the circumstances. I'm Darren. These," - he took his hand from Judas' shoulder so Judas assumed he was motioning to the Boys around them - ", are the Damned."

"Why are you called that?" Judas asked.

"Well," Darren said, laughing silently, "we're condemned, aren't we? Left for dead? Hell's the only place for us, lad, and even that won't take us."

Judas looked up to the dark figure of Darren beside him, still confused.

"Neverland's our Hell, Judas," Darren said, "our former home, our present demise. Felix is The Devil, former Boys are Demons; and us, the Damned. We're a Lost cause, mate; we always were."

"Always is an awfully long time," Judas said, his eyebrows furrowing.

"Yes," Darren said, "and so is never."

...

Peter held his fourth slice of pizza aloft; he took another bite, staring up at the ceiling. Peter already felt himself growing indolent to the heaviness of his content stomach; he sighed and looked to the slice with almost pained distaste, as he did want to finish it but his stomach and his pride wouldn't allow it.

"You know," Peter said, replacing the slice to its orginal place atop the greasy cardboard, "I always wondered what made your world so lazy and I suppose I found a very plausible reason."

"You didn't complain earlier," Emma spoke up, on her fourth slice herself.

"That's because he was too busy stuffing his face," Neal said, on his back, a hand on his full stomach.

"Well, I'm not about to let food go to waste," Peter said, rolling his eyes as if that were obvious, "though considering how you're all laying around like a bunch of lazy arses, I suppose this _pizza _is a weakness of your world's?"

Henry turned his head to look at Peter; they were somewhat close, perhaps a few feet, though the distance between seemed miles apart. "I guess," Henry said, placing his chin in his palm to better see Peter. "How come it has to be a weakness, though?"

Peter let his head fall back against the dirt floor. "Because I can't get up," He said, staring up at the rafters of his hideaway.

A laugh bubbled up Henry's throat and he was laughing that gorgeous sound that Peter inclined his head to hear. Peter fluttered his eyes closed, suddenly very tired; they all were very tired though Peter was exhausted. Even so, he forced his aching joints to push himself up; he turned and looked around at all the adults lazing about, eyes closed, chests rising.

Peter stood and stepped around the tangle of bodies upon the dirt floor; Peter walked to the back of the floor, Henry's eyes watching him curiously. Harold poked an eye open, slumped in his cot. He watched with Henry as Peter disappeared behind the curtain of animal leather.

Peter reappeared with thick fur blankets in his arms; he dumped one atop Charming, who was laying with his arms wrapped around his wife. Another fell near Killian, who merely glanced to it; Killian looked up and sighed heavily when Emma and Neal recieved a single blanket. Regina recieved a blanket, as did Henry and Harold and Rumple. Peter then sighed and looked over the makeshift family, his hands upon his hips. He nodded, a slight smile on his lips before he turned and grabbed a spear from near the door; he then began to unlatch the door, about to go out, before Henry asked, "Wait. Where are you going?"

"To take watch," Peter said, turning so he could Henry clearly. "You all need to rest."

"So do you, kid," Emma said, watching Peter. In the light of the oil lamps, the shadows beneath his eyes seemed like bruises; his lip sported several deep teeth-like marks that had, over time, become scabs. Peter looked to her and shook his head, his knuckles whitening against the latch on the door. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed painfully and shook his head again, more forcefully. "If I could sleep, I would; but that isn't an option. You all rest; sweet dreams."

He turned and walked out, closing the door behind him, the cold wind embracing him after such a long time away. Peter sat himself up against the side of the hut, his hand tight on his spear; the butt of it rubbed an indention in the dirt as he looked out at the darkness of the surrounding trees. Peter looked up to the one space where he could actually see the stars, the one spot of ebony sky and silver studs winking down to him; one star stood out to him most, the biggest and brightest of them all - the twinkling star of his former Home, the second star to the right.

Peter sat there for a few silent hours, listening to the typical Forest sounds; after a while, his eyes began to feel heavy and his head began to nod forward. Just as Peter's eyes closed the door he sat beside was pushed open; the movement jerked Peter to attention and he was about to push himself up when he saw Henry's pale face and his dark hair; he gave a slight smile and pulled his fur blanket around his shoulders, closing the door quietly before taking a seat beside Peter. Peter scooted himself over, giving Henry room. Henry pulled the blanket from his shoulders and laid it across their legs, making sure Peter's were covered. Peter watched him, noting the care to which Henry put into the small act.

Henry could feel Peter's gaze; he turned slightly to face him, suddenly nervous. "I couldn't sleep," Henry said simply, the metal of his locket blisteringly warm against his clammy skin beneath his shirt.

Peter nodded, looking out at the trees; their legs brushed beneath the blanket and Henry watched Peter's Adam's apple lurch. "You mean you dreamt," Peter said, turning slightly to look at Henry from the corner of his eye. He saw Henry's face falter, his mask slip.

Henry played with his hands above the blanket, white fingers running over ghostly knuckles. Henry gave a single nod and Peter adjusted himself so that his knees were pointed sideways to Henry, his position giving himself a serene view of the boy. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Henry sighed quietly. "I don't know what I'd talk about," He shrugged. "It was just a dream."

Peter stared intently at Henry. "You say that like a dream doesn't matter," He said, looking up at the stars, "like they don't make a difference."

Henry turned and watched Peter stare up; Henry looked up, too, following his gaze. High above them, set in the center of a canopy of dark branches and leaves, was an almost perfect circle of black sky with stars that glittered like spilt liquid silver. One of the stars shone the brightest and seemed to wink at Henry; staring up, he asked, "What happened?"

Peter blinked, his eyes flicking to Henry, to how he innocently watched the stars above them; Peter's tongue found the scabs and he quickly replaced his tongue back between his lips. "What do you mean?"

Henry looked away from the stars to turn and gaze at Peter; even in the scarce light, he could see the red tint upon his tainted lips, the shadows under his eyes, the dulled light glistening off Peter's pupils. "You and Felix," Henry said, "Your lip. When you hit the table and you ... ," Henry grew silent before continuing, "What happened?"

Peter didn't answer right away; instead, he turned his attention back to the stars. "When I was young," Peter said before adding quickly, "well, young_er_, I used to hear that when you died, you became a star." Peter watched the stars and Henry watched Peter. "I think I was the only one to believe it, then; it made sense, 'least it did to me," Peter glanced to Henry then back to the stars. "Did you know that all those stars are the Dead?"

Henry looked reluctantly to the stars; there was a silent agreement between the two that their previous topic wasn't going to be let go as easily as that. Henry stared up, watching the glittering stars. "No, I didn't."

"There's a lot, isn't there?" Peter mused quietly.

Henry nodded. The two sat once again in silence.

"I used to know them all," Peter said, "the stars, whom they were before; though not all of them were people, some are places."

"How can you tell the difference?" Henry asked.

"Depends on the light. The brightest one," Peter said, leaning closer to Henry in order to point up in the general direction of the winking star, "is your world. Earth."

Henry glanced sideways to Peter. How did he know the planets' name?

Peter licked his lips, feeling Henry's eyes. "The brighter the star," Peter said, "the stronger the belief, the stronger the magic. That's why Neverland's typically very bright ... though, recently, it's been ... rather dim."

Peter looked down to his own hands, dirty and beaten compared to Henry's porcelian fingertips and blushed knuckles. Henry stared at Peter and bumped his legs against his. "I believe in you," Henry whispered, "isn't that enough?"

Peter turned and looked at Henry, his eyes reflecting his inner sadness. Henry's heart panged painfully as his hand found Peter's and he tugged it from his other one; the two looked down to their fingers, white porcelian slipping between bruised blush. Peter stared down at their interlaced fingers, the coldness of his hands blistering against Henry's fiery skin.

"Your dream," Peter began, "you saw the fire again, didn't you?"

Henry's locket burned, the cold air causing it to hum; Henry remained silent, giving a single nod. Peter tightened his grip on Henry's hand. "I have dreams like that, too; not of fires but of ... the past."

Henry watched Peter blink painfully. "I tried to forget the past and every night, it comes back," Peter said, his voice cracking, "it comes back and haunts me. I see faces and hear names; I hear screams and see bodies, everywhere - they're hanging from trees, drowning in coves, burning in their homes. There's a stone and the rock beneath it is carved with runes and there's a dagger - ," Peter's voice caught, his eyes dimming drastically. His hand fell limp in Henry's. After a long moment of complete silence, of Peter staring into space, envisioning the dagger in his mind's eye, Peter seemed to come back. "It's only worse at night, the dreams. Because once, they were real."

Henry didn't say anything, just gave Peter a reasurring squeeze. "Not all dreams are bad, though," Peter said, blinking away the dimness of his eyes; the spark reignited as he looked to Henry, "I dreamt you. It was best thing I'd done."

The two stared at one another, attached by their interlaced fingers, hidden now beneath the blanket; Peter watched Henry and couldn't help but smile gently as Henry tried to stifle his yawn and still keep eye contact with Peter. Peter smiled, leaning in; he brought up his other hand, finally releasing his hold from the spear to brush back Henry's dark bangs. Peter fluttered his eyelids closed as his lips met Henry's cooling forehead; the touch of Peter's lips seemed to reignite the warmth and Peter pulled away. Henry had slumped against him and Peter sighed tiredly, positioning the boy so that his head was in the crook of his neck; he had to slink down slightly in order for this to work as the height difference was a bit of a difficulty but nonetheless, Peter found a way.

The two sat like that for a while; Peter couldn't help the guilt eating away at his heart. Their hands were still interlaced and Peter looked out at the darkness surrounding them both; Peter sighed, inclining his head close to Henry's ear; he whispered in it, "Sweet dreams," before looking up once again to the twinkling star. It winked down at the two, shimmering more brightly than ever, as if it were reassuring Peter that his secret was safe with the stars.

* * *

**oh dear lord this was really cute frick**

**angst can't take a break though uh**

**and pizza because comfort food**

**Peter's hinting at his backstory, not okay, guys**

**much cute**

**hand holding**

**frick**


	9. Starlit Shadows

**Chapter Nine: Starlit Shadows**

_"Stars are beautiful, but they may not take part in anything, they must just look on forever."_

The stars knew how to keep a secret, they did, but they weren't exactly the most trustworthy fore it was boring up in the sky all night and all day as the sky never lightened in Neverland fore it was the Land of the Dreamers and Dreamers haven't a need for lights where they're going. The stars, very talkative, whispered and twinkled of this exciting news of what they'd seen; soon enough, every constellation knew of it and were retelling the story, moulding it and shaping it to the pattern of their twinkling lights.

Felix was conveinietly standing about near the mouth of the Echo Caves when the stars' story came to his ears; looking up, he could see them winking excitedly - as if they were taunting him with their news of Peter's affections toward the Truest Believer. The grip Felix held on his spear tightened and in a moment, he had the spear up, its sharp edge glinting dangerously in the dappled starlight; a voice in Felix's mind snarled, _Control yourself, Felix; we don't need you to screw up again, do we?_ Felix lowered his spear only to have a strange overpowering sensation to flow down his arm like liquid iron; it caused his hand to clench around the spear. The liquid metal feeling left a rusty taste in his mouth, the same metallic blisteringly-hot-yet-shudderingly-cold sensation tying his mouth and arm together. The overpowering feeling moved his numb lips.

"Is there something you'd all like to tell me?" Felix's lips moved though not of his own accord; his voice, in fact, was not his own. It was lower, more bitter than his had ever been; as if it had been given time to grow gruff after millenium without speaking, only screaming.

Felix watched the stars in wide-eyed surprise; all of them erupted into panicked flashing, flickering and blinking. The cold-hot metallic feeling surged into the arm Felix had nothing in; something - someone - forced it up. The upraised hand caused all of the stars to flicker out, all except one, the biggest of them all; it seemed to flash in an almost rebellious act and glowed still brightly even when Felix's gaze narrowed and his jaw set.

Felix felt himself roll his eyes; "Now, now, Chief, there's no need to outshine me," The same low voice growled from Felix's throat, "you never could before, why could you ever now?"

The star faltered; its light flickered.

"Now that I've got your light," There was a chuckle; deep and throaty and cruel, "you haven't a reason to shine at all."

The star seemed to sputter like a breath of air across a candle flame; then, in a fit of fury, the star lit red for a moment before glowing white-hot.

Felix's lips spread into a sneer, his scar tightening painfully. "Now, Cheif; _is there anything you'd like to tell me?_ "

The rest of the stars slowly lit until the sky was full of them; a message began to flicker across the constellations, a language of short bursts and drawn out lights. The voice returned back to inside of Felix's mind; it sounded pleasantly surprised. _Why, Peter; you're making this much too easy._

Felix, finally in control of himself, quirked an eyebrow. "What is it?" He mumbled between his teeth as to not alert the Demons coming from the shadows of the Forest.

_Peter just gave us yet another weakness to play with, _The chuckle resonated within Felix's head, _and this weakness, why, it's worth twenty idiot girls._

...

Peter hadn't even recognised himself in a dream; after so long in Neverland, even reality had turned dreamlike over time. Peter knew this was a dream, though; it was the only way he could be reliving something as comical as his past life. His parents were happy, his father alive; his brother wasn't completely deranged from his deploy to go fight in The Holy War. They were sitting around a fire, himself in his mother's lap; she held him close and rocked his sleeping form, humming a three-note tune.

His father and brother were speaking in hushed tones and his mother looked up from Peter's sleeping face (he was watching all of this from his childish perspective); her peaceful serene face darkened drastically and she asked, her voice low, "You're not talking about the journey, are you?"

Peter's father smiled gently. "Well, we can't leave this topic unspoken of, dear; my leave is inevitable. The ship'll leave port soon as will I. A Captain without his ship ... Why, it's unheard of."

Peter's mother pursed her lips. She looked between desperate and defeated. "You're really going to go, aren't you? Even after the stories?"

"Stories!" Peter's father exclaimed; it was loud enough to jolt Peter's small form awake, "The stories are what make it exciting. You get to see a tale told by tongue and firelight come to life and get to compare between reality and one's fantasy! It's wonderful," Peter's father's eyes were alight with a special glow and he reached for her hands, taking them in his own, "and once I've explored, I can bring you and the boys and show you. I'll take you three on adventures every day!"

"Our life's an adventure enough, darling," Peter's mother said, pulling a hand from her husband's to caress his cleanshaven cheek with her thumb. "You make it so."

"Hence the reason I must go," Peters' father countered, "fore I am used to such adventures, my crew is not. They would never be able to be out on their own; we've never sailed these rough of waters before nor this long of a distance. The rewards shall be heavenly, though, love; never before have we been offered to find something so magical."

"Nor something as impossible, Father," Peter's elder brother interjected, his arms crossing momentarily. He raised his eyebrow to his father, waiting for his contradictory remark that typically followed.

As always, Peter's father gave a hearty laugh, undeterred by his son's blunt choice of words. "Why, nothing's impossible, boy," He said, clamping a hand down on his shoulder, "not as long as you believe."

...

Hook was the first to wake. He awoke as he always did; to the cold of steel replacement of a hand and the cold of no one beside him, the cold of his own heavy heart set hollowly in his blisteringly warm chest.

The hut was warm yet Killian felt much too cold, much too alone to be surrounded by warm bodies of the Resting. He sat up, his leather crinkling at the motion; he looked about, finding two bodies amiss from the group: Peter's and Henry's.

...

Henry was in the fire once again. He was trying to see through the haze of the flames; they were suffocating him, smothering him. Henry held his arm up to his mouth and coughed hard into it, trying to see through the dancing flames. "Hello?" Henry shouted, choking on the ashy air. "Hello?"

He was expecting to see the woman from the Enchanted Forest; instead, he was surrounded by darkness yet the harsh light of the fire; he could hear chilling screams and angry shouts, could see shadows from above and below. Henry turned around in a circle, his hands making their way to cover his ears; he watched the shadows, tall and daring, dip between flames and darkness. Henry narrowed his eyes, trying to figure where he was in the dream. From the smoking canopies above, it was definitely a forest; with a slight start, Henry recognised the tip of Dead Man's Peak.

He _was _in a forest; the Dark Forest, in Neverland. Though it seemed to be a more apocalypic side of it; the branches were alight with flame and the shadows were far more menacing than even the single one Henry had met and seen rip out the shade of Greg. These shadows were far more demonic; they held weapons meant to harm and kill, to defend and protect. When Henry heard the choking behind him, he whirled around and stared ahead. He couldn't believe it; how could _Peter _be in his dream?

Peter was about sixteen; his hair was ruffled and he looked as if he'd been stuck out at sea for years. His skin was ashen and bruises stood out under his eyes, nearly as bad as of late; he wore a torn uniform of fishnet and green scraps of fabric sewn together by patches. Peter looked quickly over his shoulder, his hand moving to a dagger at his thigh; he whirled as Henry took a step and Peter was suddenly armed with a crooked knife, his eyes glistening in defiance and glittering fear. "What - what do you want?" He asked, breathless, the smoke tightening his throat.

Henry looked at him, shaking his head very slightly. He took a step back until he heard the voice behind him, a girls'; she made a guttural sound and then croaked, trying to form words, it seemed. Henry turned to face her; she had to be fourteen, at least, and she was incredibly pretty, he had to admit. Her long silky black hair reflected the firelight, as did her large chocolate brown eyes; she wore a dress of tan animal hide and necklaces of beads and animal talons. Her coffee skin seemed to radiate like the fire around the three, as if she held a warmth none could touch.

Peter stared at the girl as if she were completely deranged. "What are you - are you trying to speak?" He asked, taking a step closer.

She backed up at the obvious threat of the dagger still tight in his fist; Peter glanced to it, then to the girl before him. He dismissed the girl as a threat and replaced his dagger back to his sheath, licking his dry lips. He held his bare hands out, trying to show he meant no harm. "Look, I'm not going to hurt you," He said, "I'm really sorry about what they're doing, I didn't know they'd - "

In mere moments from the time Peter had unarmed himself, shadows had surrounded the three; Henry looked to the faces, recognising the colourful honourary paint. They were Natives; armed with spears and hardset expressions, they watched Peter with both distaste and repressed curiousity.

One of the Natives took place beside the girl, a feather headdress atop his graying ebony hair, paint coating his face. He stared ahead at Peter, his eyes cold despite the wrinkles of early happiness; he finally uttered one word: "Grab."

Peter's eyes widened and he let out a shout as five of the men rushed him, groping for an arm to keep him still. The main Native stepped forward, so that his painted nose was inches from Peter's own; Peter stiffened, staring into the eyes of the man, the painted Warrior.

"You bring men," He accused.

Peter shook his head. "No, I didn't - "

" - Floating box - ship - bring men," He tried again.

Peter nodded ever-so slightly though it could've just so been mistaken for a nervous tremble. The man was watching him closely enough to know it was a nod. His lips set in a grim line.

"What men want?" He asked.

Peter's eyes flicked to his feet before going back, level with the man's eyes. He had to be honest; he couldn't lie to anyone anymore. "They want the Fountain," He said, "and they'll do anything for it."

The main Native glanced to the rest of the men around him. He turned his attention back to Peter. "Fountain?"

"Of Youth," Peter said. "They want the Fountain of Youth."

...

Hook had evaded waking everyone else up, not wanting to frighten any of them; being a pirate, he'd noticed the two boys' strange behaviour since his first sighting of the two's interacting. He'd almost made it to the door without waking anyone up when Harold stirred and turned to look to him.

Killian and Harold met one another's gaze; Harold glanced about the room, noticing the two's disappearance. A smile came across his face and he shook his head slighly, glancing knowingly to the front door behind Hook. Harold inclined his head as if telling him to go check; Killian narrowed his eyes and let his one hand push open the door.

He poked his head out, seeing Henry and Peter, wrapped together in a fur blanket, Henry's head in the crook of Peter's neck. The two were snuggled next to each other, two of their hands underneath the blanket; one of Henry's curled up near his chest. Killian raised an eyebrow, stepping farther outside to better look at the two. His leather crinkled and Peter's eyes shot open, his head turning swiftly toward the noise. Peter's spear was up and he was ready to hurl it; though when he saw Killian's panicked expression, Peter lowered his spear and blinked.

Killian glanced at Henry then at Peter. Even though Peter had been rearing for a fight, he still hadn't lifted the hand beneath the blanket. Under closer inspection, as Peter's movement had caused the blanket to slip, Killian realised they were holding one another's hands, their fingers intertwined; Henry's were tighter on Peter's, as Henry was still asleep.

Killian gave a breathy laugh. "Are you two _holding hands_?"

Peter shot Killian a nasty look, a spark igniting in his gaze. "Can't you go be an arse somewhere else? I'm kind of busy being a look-out."

"Mighty fine look-out you are," Killian chuckled, "falling asleep on the job _and _cuddling up to an eleven year-old."

"He's thirteen," Peter snapped, matter-of-factly, "and I was _not _sleeping; I was dreaming. There's a difference."

"Difference?" Killian asked, guffawing. "Mind if I ask what that difference is? Because they both seem quite the same."

"Oh, Killian," Peter said, staring the pirate head-on, "I'm sure you know the difference between a dream and reality. A dream, you wish you still had; a dream's either the past or a desire for the future. Regular old sleep, amiss everything besides darkness? Why, it's yourself giving up, _given _up. If you have nothing to dream for, you have nothing at all."

Killian felt a dull ache in the coldness of his chest. He was about to retort back to the lad when he realised he hadn't a clue _how. _"Well, keep your hands off his arse, then," Killian snapped, "I really don't we need his family at your neck when you're practically already at theirs'."

"I'll keep that in mind," Peter said, as Killian closed the door quickly behind him. Peter watched the door, as if expecting it to open again. When it didn't, he let out a small sigh and turned his attention back to the darkened Forest and the stars still above his head.

He couldn't remember a time when the sky had ever been lit besides the lights of the Dead.

...

"Come on, lad," Darren called, "you get Lost out here, you're Lost forever! We ain't comin' back for you!"

Judas quickened his pace, trying to see through the shadows of night. "Why is it still dark?" He asked, huffing.

"Why do you ask so many questions?" Darren asked in reply, before glancing to Judas, whom had run up beside him, looking about the darkened Forest with fearful eyes. Darren placed a hand on Judas' shoulder, in an act of comfort; even so, Judas jumped.

"It's always dark in Neverland," Darren tried to keep his voice low; he looked up to the stars and for the first time, a flicker of fear rippled across his pale face, "because it's the Land of Dreams; at least it _was_. Ever since that last War, instead of the Land where Dreams come to be Born ... Neverland's been the Land where Dreams come to Die."

Judas glanced up at Darren's face. "Since when?"

"Since," Darren looked down to his feet, to the Damned around him; they all seemed apprehensive, tense. "I can't exactly say his name, not aloud in the middle of a Forest, mind. It's a bad omen."

Judas looked about to the other Damned's faces; they held the same fear in their eyes. "What is? Saying a name?"

"No," Darren shrugged, "Names are just labels to faces. Titles, though; they're a bit different than a simple label. What he has ... It's more than even a title. He's worse than Felix ever was. He's - "

Darren's eyes widened. He turned, feeling his shoes sinking in the dirt. He could hear it, the clinking of teeth, the smack of a dragging tail; Darren's nails dug deep in Judas' shoulder as Darren snarled, "Don't move until I say."

Darren shot a look to one of the lads near him. "You could've told me we were venturing too near the Creek - "

" - I can't tell in this Dark!" The lad snapped back, his voice cracking as it rose high with his anxiety.

"Whatever," Darren snapped, pulling Judas swiftly behind him; Darren pulled a broken spear shaft from a sling of leather tether across his body. He held it out to the grey croc until it was nearing him, licking its glistening pink chops.

"When I say 'Run,'" Darren began, "I mean, _run._"

The croc came in closer, its red eyes unblinking, glowing like hot coals set in its skull.

"On the count of three," Darren continued, "one."

The croc sniffed, its head turning ever-so slowly_. _Its blood-red eyes flicked to the darker blotch of darkness.

"Two," Darren murmured as the croc began to take a single step forward.

"Run!" Darren shouted; the croc sprang forward, its mouth of glittering teeth wide and gnashing. The Damned leapt back, rushing off; one wasn't as lucky as the rest of the lads. His leg found itself between the gnashing fangs of the croc's mouth; fairly soon, the croc was dragging the boy back to the Creek, his fangs set deep in the gushing tendons of his calf. The blood of the Damned tainted the waters of the Creek a rusty inhuman tinge; the only sound was the tear of flesh, the crush of bones and the splash of bloody water.

Judas jumped once he heard Darren near his ear. "He was Damned to an early death," Darren mused, listening to the crunch of teeth through a leg bone. "Death to a reptile. We thought for sure it'd be a dragon of some sort - never would've expected his end to go to the mouth of that blasted beast.

"We'll regroup near Pan's new hideaway," Darren continued, lowering his voice so Judas was the only one to hear. "We've been watching the stars and most of them are gathered over where we suspect it is."

"Stars? What do they matter?" Judas asked, his usual innocent tone growing dark.

Darren glanced to him. "All they can ever do is look upon the Living," He said, "and watch them become the Dying, then the Dead. All expect Peter - that's why they watch him. He's unnatural, magical. They're not afraid of him - just cautious. They're afraid of what he could be - something about bad blood, I suppose."

Judas watched Darren closely in the darkness of the Forest. "Bad blood?"

"Bad blood equal bad omens," Darren shrugged, "and we've plenty of them already."

...

"We've found something," A Demon shouted from within the cavern of the Caves.

Felix rushed to the mouth, his boots skidding over the slick rock, his cloak billowing about him. His hood fell off from the force of his jot; the flickering of torch flame caused his shadow to jump erractically on the backdrop behind him. From the height he was at, he could see a group of Demons standing around a circle of absolute shadow.

The same cold-yet-hot sensatation scalded Felix's throat, making him shout, "What is it? Afraid of a little _dark_?"

"No," One Demon snarled, "but we can't grab what's in the shadow if we can't see it, can we?"

Felix's jaw popped from the force of his teeth finding purchase together. Felix snapped his fingers; the shadow behind him turned as if called. It pushed itself from its two-demionsional position on the wall and zipped out to the middle of the cave before darting down into the hole of blackness.

The Devil and His Demons held baited breath, watching the hole in which the shadow had disappeared. After what seemed like ages, the shadow seemed to pull itself up from the hole; it got barely its head from the darkness before it seemed to grow stuck. It began to struggle frantically.

A growl spitted a curse in Felix's mind; the metallic feeling flowed into his arm, causing him to lift his hand and snap. The snap seemed to ring and bounce off the cavern walls; moments later, the shadow was shrieking, screaming.

Felix could figure one word out of the string of incoherent shrieking - _secrets_.

Felix's eyes rolled and he sighed. "Why, Peter, quite the security measure," He mused, chuckling, "fine, fine. A secret. Only one? Really, I would've thought you'd like more. Now, a _secret _from me - what do not know?"

The metallic feeling spread down to Felix's legs, forcing him to walk down to the Demons and the screaming shadow. "You're supposedly All-Knowing, are you not? Yet you have a Cave _just _for your Secrets. That, I'll never cease to understand. You were always a peculiar child, Peter, even more-so now; I suppose that's what a good ol' backstabbing does to anyone, though. Now, let's see, a secret ... One you don't even know. Well," Felix's voice darkened, as if it itself turned black as the writhing shadow, "how about the fact that two of your little girlfriends are here, in my custody? You knew of Wendy, sure, you just didn't remember her at all - did the thimble and the kiss mean nothing to you? But, just to add fuel to the fire and an extra secret to your collection, I also have your dear old friend, _Tiger Lily._"

The screaming of the shadow ceased; the darkness began to fade, letting the shadow once again take flight; it held a sharp blade in its dark hands as it zoomed to the cavern ceiling, as far from everyone as it could get. It hid up in the shadows of stalagmites; for a moment, all was silent, until the shadow let out another shriek and dropped the knife.

Felix's neck was allowed to crane to look up at the falling dagger; the metallic feeling forced his arm up. The dagger went right through his palm and Felix choked out a cry; the metallic taste seemed to pulse from his throat muscles, cutting off his sob.

_Lost Boys don't cry, Felix, _The snarl growled as Felix's unbleeding arm plucked the bloody blade from the bloodied damp floor. In the dancing light of the torches, a word flashed back to Felix's pained gaze; Felix choked, staring down at it, feeling how wrong, how horribly wrong this was. It was all happening again and this time, Felix wasn't going to be able to stop it. He couldn't be the One to save Peter and if Felix's suspicions were correct, as they had been as of the last time around, then Peter would need someone to save him.

For the second time, Felix felt the irrational fear that perhaps the Boy Who Never Grew Up was about to become the Boy Fated With Something Far Worse Than Death.

That frightened Felix beyond belief; it didn't help matters that he was to blame for his love's demise.

_If only you'd listened to that voice in your head sooner, Felix, before it turned dark and dastardly. If only you'd finished me off when you still had the chance._

* * *

**I'm getting major anxiety because this episode Felix and Peter and just**

**I ship them. I do, I do.**

**And in the promo, Felix was being all cute and defensive and stuff and I just.**

**I'm going to cry okay**

**And loads of stuff just happened so add 'fuel to the fire' as was said above^^**


	10. Dead Damned Boy

**Chapter Ten: Dead Damned Boy**

"_One girl is worth more use than 20 boys."_ - _Peter Pan_

Peter had been sitting out with Henry, still asleep against him, when he felt it; it was a slight and harsh stab against his skull. Even so, he started, jerked back from Henry; Henry fell foward, starling awake as Peter winced at the deepening sharp pricks of pain. Henry glanced over, confused, sleep still clouding his vision. "Peter? You okay?"

Peter held his head, feeling pressure stab at his ears; a heavy feeling draped over his shoulders when he heard the voice, thick and cold, cruelly familar yet foreign to the ear. It coiled around his heavy heart and clutched it in a grip so tight that for a second, Peter was more afraid of it letting go and leaving him to endure the pain of his head by himself; he found a solace in the voice, the shadow of a once kind heart and a clear mind, clouded by the images of a war so bloody and cold it was anything but Holy. The words rung in his mind like fearsome clangs of beating swords, of arrows piercing hearts through skin of pale flesh and red; though all blood ran the same - all blood, all red, tainted with the beginning stages of Dreamshade but still alive, still _human_, flowed to the ground and painted the dirt until it rusted.

Henry watched Peter, his eyes widening; he jumped up and started shouting for his family, his mothers, his father, his grandparents, Hook, Harold - _anyone. _Henry pushed himself up and rushed to Peter's side, trying to talk him out of whatever he'd zoned into; it seemed like a nightmare - Peter was shaking uncontrollably, his fingers digging into his head, into his skull, trying to force whatever it was out, but his eyes were still wide open, he was still awake. He was muttering under his breath quickly, barely loud enough for Henry to hear over his panicked consoltation: "_But, Benny, I was only playing! Another of your idiot games? No, Benny, they're very fun, let me show you! I haven't got time for your childish games, Peter; I'm a solider now and you, you're just a stupid little boy. But, Benny - No, Peter, sod off now; I've got adult things to do and unless you know to properly clean a gun, I don't want to hear it. You never listen to me! Maybe, it's because you have nothing important to say. Papa listened to me; he thought I was important. Yes, and do you know what happened to him, all because he listened to you? He went on an adventure. No, Peter; he disappeared, died. Papa says no one just disappears, they simply get lost. He was always lost in the head, just as you are; you're a spitting image of 'im, Pete, a real shame, too, looking like a Dead Damned Man. But, I'm a boy. Fine, then, a Dead Damned Boy; now do the both of us a favour: get lost._"

Henry's family rushed from the hut, finding Peter post-episode. He held his head, rocked on the heels of his feet, his lips mouthing unspoken words, his fingers holding his hair high off his forehead as if he were on the verge of ripping it out. His eyes glistened but were otherwise blank; his lip trembled yet still moved to the words he tried to speak. Harold pushed through the throng of adults to crouch beside Peter; he very carefully nudged Peter's foot with his own, the comfort of his words trapped deep in his throat. After a moment's hesitation, Harold wrapped his forearms about Peter's trembling form and held him there, trapping him in his embrace on the rusty dirt, trying to hold Peter still, to calm him down. After a while of their sitting there, Peter stopped rocking, stopped mouthing; instead he stayed still and silent and didn't say a word.

After a long moment of the adults' uneasy silence, Peter whispered, his voice breaking unevenly, "Someone gave the Caves a secret."

Everyone stayed quiet, waiting for Peter to continue. He did so, heavily, breathlessly, painfully; "They have it now. I can feel it. It hurts again."

"What hurts?" Emma asked, concern leaking into the air from her words like vapor.

"My heart," Peter whimpered. "It hurts. Like someone's squeezing it really tightly but it's not a squeeze ... I-it's a stab." Peter's head jerked forward, his eyes snapping open; a hand flew out and latched onto Harold's wrist and he was digging his nails into Harold's skin, turning his fearful gaze to Harold's confused and pained expression. "Harold. It's a _stab_."

Harold's expression changed dramatically; his eyes widened, his eyebrows shot high and he let out a small noise of bitten-back pain and horrified surprise. Harold and Peter held one another's gaze for several long seconds before Peter realised he was still being held; he pushed away, standing, trying to regain composure as he recognised the circle of adults high above him. He straightened and stood on his tip-toes, puffing out his chest and holding his head high. "I'm not a little boy, Harold, I haven't got to be held."

Harold didn't roll his eyes at the sudden change in attitude; Peter always acted this way towards those who intimidated them and adults definitely did. Harold sighed a little, though, and nodded, accepting that Peter needed a change in subject; Peter Pan couldn't show his weaknesses to anyone, that was one of his many rules. Harold was concerned, however; if Peter was right about the stabbing feeling, Harold needed to help him. If not Harold, the only other person Peter would listen to - Henry.

Harold could only hope Peter would be sensible enough to hear the two of them out where Harold's words and Henry's knowledge of the past were lacking.

...

Darren hated to admit his fears; he had very few of them, of course, but nonetheless, they ruled his life, controlled him like a puppet on strings. It didn't help that one of his worst fears was of the Dark.

Darren walked with Judas in uneasy silence; the two were walking carefully about the shadowed ground, trying to slink about the palms and stones and find their way from the jutting roots, not wanting to be the one to trip and fall on them, as that would make it easier for the shadows to claw them down and devour them.

"How much farther?" Judas asked, his voice quiet from the fact that he hadn't used it much on their walk, considering the circumstances.

"Look to the stars," Darren said; he tried not to look up at them every few seconds, though it was hard not to, being his only source of hope in the hopelessness of the blackened sky. "Where's the largest spot of them?"

A splatter of stars hovered over a deeper cluster of blackened treetops from what Darren could see upon the ground; it wasn't the best view but it was much better than being shrouded in complete and utter Dark. Darren glanced uneasily to the frightening shadows of the trees, his back and shoulders apprehensive; he placed a hand on Judas' shoulder, trying to reassure himself that he wasn't the only human amid the shades of darkness.

Judas pointed at the cluster. "That's it, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Darren said, tugging Judas along, "hopefully."

...

Felix was resisting.

Benedict was sure of it - he could feel the Lost Boy's conflicted emotions; Felix had to know what was going on, what Benedict was planning as it wasn't very different from what he'd orginally done. With the dagger, all Benedict had to do was get Peter and perform the ritual - and he had a brilliant idea on how to capture him. With the use of the girls as bait, Peter would ultimately be overcome by the Demons that would Stake the grounds for the right moment of conjoined ambush; Benedict could practically _taste _the power in the thick, humid air of the Forest, the hot blade in his - Felix's, more like - hands. He put it to a belt on his side, underneath the folds of Felix's cloak, forcing Felix to lengthen his jot as the Devil and his Demons made their way to the Hanging Tree.

Hanging from it were two bamboo-and-vine cages; Benedict gave a snap of his fingers, watching as his Demons cut the vines holding the cages high in the air. They began to lower them until the thatched cage bottoms brushed the dirt. Benedict raised an eyebrow when he saw they made no move to open the cages. "What are you all waiting for?" He questioned, stepping forward, feeling a flicker of pain as Felix's scar twitched.

The Demons looked to him and for a split second, they saw Felix instead of whatever he'd become. Felix's eyes lightened; he showed pain, emotion, but only for a moment. His skin regained some colour; he didn't look as sick nor as tired, as the shadows underneath his eyes paled before everything regained its sick and demonic look. He was Benedict again and he showed his fearsome white teeth in a twisted smile, snarling, "Well?"

The Demons set to work, unlatching the first of the two cage doors so that one hit the dirt and uprooted clouds of red-brown. Backed against the corner of her cage sat a girl in a billowy nightgown of lace folds; she looked up through a curtain of knotted hair with hopeless blue eyes, amiss their wonderous twinkle.

Benedict came forward, leering at Wendy with a twisted grin and a glowing red scar. He smirked, holding out a hand. "Come along, girl; you're finally needed."

She looked to his hand as if it were foreign, dangerous. She glanced to the Lost Boy's face; she'd seen him before though he seemed different. His eyes had never before been so dark nor his smile so unfriendly; though the last time she'd met this Boy and Peter Pan hadn't been the most friendly of terms. She'd come back for Baelfire but also for Peter, to convince him to go home with her; when she'd come and been ambushed by Peter and his Boys, she'd realised too late that Peter had no recollection of whom she was. All he knew was what he'd been told - and he had been told and convinced of the lies he heard.

"Needed for what?" Wendy asked, afraid of the Boy's reply; she'd heard from the air, from the stars, the stories of how Peter had nearly been destroyed decades before and how this Boy wished to do the same again. She didn't want to be a reason, surely not; she did love Peter, at least she had, before he'd inprisioned her upon the island.

Benedict came nearer, ducking into the cage, perched upon his bent knees and strained ankles; he brushed back a blonde curl from Wendy's face, smiling to her earnestly. He said, in a voice far too alike to Peter's own, "Why, Wendy, you're going to play pretend, make-believe. Can you do that? Be a _darling_, Darling; live up to your name where Pan failed."

For a moment, with their faces so close, Wendy saw a flicker of confusion, of outright disagreement. The eyebrows of the Boy furrowed and he muttered, "But Pan _never _fails."

The moment was gone, the eyes dark and cruel and twinkling with malevolent light, the tight mouth quirk now a broad smile of even teeth and pointed canines that glimmered in the daunting firelight allowed merely in slants from the cage roof; Benedict threw his arm out and roughly grabbed Wendy by the arm, pulling her from the cage to toss her to the Demons. "Grab her while I deal with the other one," He commanded, his voice tight and low. They obliged, two of them grabbing Wendy by the arms and holding her still, albeit with the persuasion of the sharpened rock spear points they jabbed through the folds of lacy periwinkle cloth.

As they contianed Wendy, Benedict had turned to the next cage. He beckoned several Demons to him, watched them clutch their spears more steadily in their fists, dig their heels in the dirt. Benedict gave a snap of his fingers; two Demons let loose the vines holding the cage door tight. The door hit the ground and almost immeaditly, the savage pounced.

...

Henry was dying to know what Peter's earlier ramble had meant. He was going insane, holding in his words; he had no idea how Harold hadn't gone completely mad having to keep all his thoughts trapped inside his head fore Henry was sure his was on the verge of bursting.

Still, he kept quiet, minded himself, tried to convince Peter to eat. Peter looked away from Henry and stared instead into the hearth; Peter's eyes shone with the twisting tongues of golden flame, reflecting off his tan iris and ebony pupil. He pulled his knees up, perched his chin atop his crossed forearms.

Rumple looked over from across the room. He sighed, pursed his lips and titled his head, his knobbed knuckles finding purchase along the top of his cane. He looked to Peter and eventually, after a long hesitation, made his way toward his old friend.

Henry looked up, surprised, as his grandfather came near the two. Henry noticed his father had turned to watch, as well. Henry scooted out of the way as Rumple came to stand with himself between Peter and the fire.

Peter's eyes flickered to Rumple's shoes; they had dulled in shine and Peter had to imagine they were uncomfortable what with their tight toe and rubber heel. Even so, he looked to them dullfully then raised his eyes to look to Rumple, high above. "If you want me to compliment your height," Peter began, "then I should congradulate you first on having a Lady's heel."

Rumple held his eyes closed for a long moment; he hadn't heard Peter's teasing since he was incredibly young. Rumple forced his eyes open and smiled at his former friend, revealing his stained adult teeth to further daunt him.

Peter arched an eyebrow. "You don't need to show your fangs, Crocidile; your wrinkled skin is much enough for me to decipher your age. How does it feel, Rumple, to be a grown man, long past the overdue mark?"

Rumple exhaled loudly, looking down at Peter over the hook of his crooked nose. "I should ask you the same thing, Peter, except, allow to tweak it, if I may," Rumple's eyebrows flew up and he tilted his head and continued, "how does it feel, Peter, to be a little boy, forever?"

Peter grinned. "It feels bloody amazing, Rumple; I'd advise you to try it but you already chose your path - didn't you? Long ago. Do you remember that? When I brought you here, gave you a choice; to stay here, with me, or to go back to your father. Your cheat of a father."

Rumple seemed to stiffen at the topic of his parentage; his nostrils flared and his knuckles bent white over the head of his cane. "My father was no cheat; he just didn't take kindly to your rules."

"He didn't take kindly to _any _rules," Peter muttered, casting his eyes down before saying, "I didn't mean ... for him to get his shadow - "

Rumple swallowed painfully and raised a hand. "No, Peter, it's fine; let the past stay in the Past."

Peter glanced up, looking to his former friend. "If only it were that easy, Rumple; instead, my past has been haunting me since. Which is why, now, I-I'd like to apologise. For everything I've done to you unfairly."

Rumple stared at Peter, his forehead bunching in confusion. "Why?"

"I believe you're right," Peter said, shrugging, "and the only way I can let the past be the Past is to be show you I'm sorry."

Rumple shook his head. "Peter. Apologies don't always make something better; don't tell me the messenger, whom told you of your father's demise, that _his _apology helped any?"

Peter sighed. "No. He couldn't of helped it; it wasn't his fault, what happened."

"Exactly," Rumple sighed, crouching down on his creaky knees, "and your apology doesn't either. Now, old friend, how about we try and get you to eat?"

...

Out of the foilage of the Forest came the Lost Damned; they scurried over the dirt, tripped over roots, slipped knee-deep into holes. They followed the stars, allowed them to guide them along to Peter's hideaway; eventually they all stood back, circling the tiny hut.

One of the them, the youngest of the lot - Tootles - pushed out from the lads and scurried down to the hut, cold and afraid; the rest of the lads had tried to calm him down but that wasn't easy when all was Dark and one could barely even see the tears of their Youngest without the help of the dwindled starlight.

"_Tootles,_" One of the older Boys whispered loudly, rushing after him, "_no, Tootles, stop - _"

Tootles was grabbed by his midriff by the elder Boy though not before Tootles gave the door handle a mighty rattle, trying to force it open in order to get away from the blinding Darkness that covered him like a cloak.

...

At the door rattle, Peter hadn't wasted a moment; he was up and armed in mere seconds, a sliver of boar still between his teeth, fingers slick from the bright idea of ravaging the last of the first boar.

Peter held his other arm out and used it to pull Henry to his feet; he stepped protectively before his Truest Believer, watching the door with alert eyes. He edged nearer to the door, keeping one palm back, facing Henry, keeping him from following. The rest of the adults had surrounded Peter and Henry, all armed with their weapon of choice.

Peter switched spearhands, outstretching his hand closest to the door handle. His fingers curled and he turned the latch up before pushing the door open; Peter was met by Darkness and figures darker than the shadows themselves. For a moment, all was silent and nothing moved; that was until Tootles wiggled out from his primary Watcher's grasp.

Tootles ran forward and collided into Peter's legs, wrapping his tiny arms around Peter's muscular calves. He began to cry into Peter's pants and Peter looked down at Tootles, partly shocked. He looked up, meeting the glittering eyes of his Boys; Peter stared ahead, throwing his arms wide. Soon enough, all the Boys had filed in, all were piled in a hug around Peter; all were a family once again though not for long.

* * *

**Allow me to apologise for both for this rushed chapter and my absence in replying to reviews, I'm really bad at those but I'll surely be able to get back to you guys and hopefully answer in length!**

**It snowed (IT'S SNOWING STILL!) and I saw Frozen so I'm hyped on Winter excessively at the moment (and I'd love to talk to you guys about that fUCKING PLOT TWIST THAT WAS BULLSHIT HE HAD SO MUCH POTENTIAL I AM ANGRY); but for now, I will wallow in my feelings and keep them mostly to myself.**

**OH YEAH AND EPISODE TONIGHT I CAN'T? ROBBIE KAY'S GOING TO PISS ME OFF WITH HIS FACE AND HIS VOICE AND I JUST NEED SO MUCH HELP BECAUSE THAT BOY IS LOVELY AND I WANT HIM ON OUAT FOREVER OKAY.**

**OH HEH AND TOOTLES IS SO CUTE BUT THAT WON'T LAST (I'm sorry)**

**Oh, yeah, and Benedict's getting creepier by the minute, like**

**I shall see you all next chapter and would like to thank all of you for being so lovely and encouraging when the ouat writers were anything but!**

**Also, Tiger Lily kicks ass.**

**(Also, before I forget, how would you guys feel about a Robin Hood RP for Tumblr? I've been thinking of doing one since Robin and Regina are really cute and he's a sassy thing and I've been getting to know Pyle's Robin from the _Merry Adventures _and, I don't know, I thought it'd be a fun thing to do and there aren't many Robins out there. I don't know, it's just a suggestion; I've never done much tumblr rping so I wouldn't know how much of it works but it'd still be pretty rad.)**

**Anyways, I'm going to enjoy the snow, revel in Frozen and cry a lot because _next episode_**


	11. The Tiger's Prowl

**Chapter Eleven: The Tiger's Prowl**

_"__We must leave at once ... before we, in turn, are forgotten." - Peter Pan, 2003_

Tiger Lily was terrified out of her mind. She'd been locked away in that _box _for days, up in the sky but not _in _the sky; she'd been left to go hungry until she'd gone slightly mad trying to pace in such a confined space. When the cage had hit the ground, panic had seized her heart; all she could remember were the torches and the glittering silver blades that had mercilessly killed her people and her parents. Tiger Lily's lengthened nails dug ruts into the thick bamboo of the cage and she steeled her jaw until it gave a loud pop, her darkened eyes shadowed by sleepness nights and malnutrition; she dug her bare dirty heels into the cage bottom before grabbing two loose vines hanging above her head. Gripping them, she seemed to disappear in the shadows of the cage, her burning eyes hidden behind the thick curtain of hair black as ash.

The cage door was let go and as it fell, Tiger Lily's anger spurted; taking the opprortunity, she immeaditly kicked off the wall and launched herself forward at the two nearest Demons that leered close.

Tackling the two caused them to fall but Tiger Lily wanted them down and to stay down; she pulled a jagged stone knife from a slit in her hide dress and slashed it ruthlessly across their exposed ankles. Blood spurted immeaditly, a pleasant sight to the Tiger's hungry eyes; it was empemeral, as she was surrounded by many other threats - targets, _prey _- but to know she could inflict pain on those that hurt her was an exhilariating feeling and she wanted it even more - even strongly than before.

She wanted revenge.

She glanced swiftly around her; she counted at least nine boys, armed, coming near her. Three boys were more distant than the rest; two held the other girl, to which Tiger Lily assumed had been locked in the second cage. The last boy was much more dominant, authoritive; he made the hairs on the Tiger's back stand, made her teeth bare and forced a growl up her throat.

His head turned and in the jumping flame of the torches, she could see it; the scar. There were two upon his marred face, one side in the light of the fires, another in the dark of the shadows - one, red, cutting swiftly across his face and a second, black, slashed across the red to form a bleeding X. He looked out and caught the Tiger's gaze and instead of avoiding her intimidation, he faced it broadly with a tempting smirk.

That was the one she wanted. She flicked out the dripping stone blade and cut a look between the nearing animals; one leapt forward from the side and with a fierce cut, the boy had a hole in his shoulder and was howling. Three others advanced, eyes hot and decieving; even so, hers burned as brightly as the stars inlaid in the sky.

...

Tootles hadn't left Peter's side since he'd latched onto him; after a while, Peter had calmed him enough for Tootles to cease in his crying though he hadn't been able to convince him to let him go - Peter hadn't even tried very hard. Instead, Peter allowed Tootles to cuddle into him on the dirt floor as the rest of Peter's Boys sat around the fire, ravenously eating the boar as they hadn't eaten in the equivalent of nearly a week (or so they said; time worked rather differently in Neverland than it did other places so Peter was obligated to take their word on the matter as he hadn't a clue how many days it had been since Felix's betrayal nor Peter's finding of Harold).

As Tootles slept against Peter's shoulder, Peter listened to his Boys as they retold the horrors that had become of Peter's Boys and his camp and of Felix; none were pleasant nor for the light-hearted though Peter, Henry, Harold and the adults listened intently, mirroring many of the same emotions of disgust, horror, and outrage.

"Well, the first thing Felix did when you were gone," Thomas began, "was say you were a coward. We never believed a word he was saying Peter - "

"You're the bravest we know!" A pair of twins, Coon and Coop, interrupted Thomas to say. Peter turned and gave them a smile and pulled a hand up to ruffle their hair.

"But, Peter, you have to understand," Thomas was continuing, barely deterred by the Twins' interuptuption, "we had to pretend; they were wielding spears and lashing out left and right, had we tried ... " Thomas' eyes flicked to Harold across the room. "Well, it would've ended badly."

Ted nodded, on his fourth helping of boar. "Felix went rampage after you were gone," He said, swallowing thickly on a large mouthful of boar, his lips and chin glistening with juice. "He just ... seemed different, wasn't 'imself. We wondered what had 'appended to you, really; he was saying it was an act of cowardiance, that you fled when he confronted you ... What _did _happen to you and Felix, Peter?"

The room fell silent besides the crackle of the fire; the hungry Boys looked away from their food to turn their eyes to Peter as did the adults and Henry. They all watched him and Peter shifted uncomfortably, swallowing thickly as he readjusted Toothles so he could try and flex feeling back into his hand.

"It's not my turn," Peter said aburptly. He didn't want to tell them what had happened; he felt ashamed by his second-in command's betrayal to him and he didn't want the fact that Peter had been played so easily affect his Boys' thoughts on him.

Thomas chewed the inside of his cheek. "We want to hear it from you, Peter - "

" - The stars are damn filthy liars when it comes to seriousness," Ted said, licking a bone clean. "They said Felix _kissed _you - "

Peter's eyes widened and his heart panged, hammered; he was suffocating, the room was too small, there wasn't enough oxygen. Peter pushed himself off the ground, shoving Tootles off, fear painted plainly across his face. He leapt to his feet and would've darted for the door had the Twins not grabbed onto his legs and tripped him.

They held on through Peter's feirce kicking and his shrill shouting; Thomas and Ted and the rest of the Boys rushed to the Twins' aid. They held Peter down and tried to be heard over his outraged and panicked cries; Peter couldn't see their faces, only shadows over his head, leering down at him, sneering. The adults, in turn, hurried to pull the Boys off of Peter, who thrashed wildly against them. Henry wrapped an arm around Tootles to keep him away from the fight; Tootles held his hands out, grasping the air, as he called Peter's name and struggled against Henry's hold of him.

The combined forces of Neal and David managed to roll Ted off of Peter's stomach, to which he had jumped upon to hold him down; Snow and Emma had to try and pull the Twins from Peter's legs as Regina looked in exasperation as five new Boys piled back upon Peter. Hook brushed past her to pluck a younger Boy up with his good hand, slipping his hook through the hole of another lads' shirt to pull him up and off of Peter. Hook shot Regina a look and said, "They won't bite, you know."

Regina shot Killian a disbelieving look, crossing her arms. "I wouldn't be so sure of that."

"They're just _boys_, Regina," Killian said, rolling his eyes, "kids. Didn't you raise one?"

Regina turned slightly, glancing to the pirate at her side. She lowered her crossed arms and looked to the remaining three Boys that clung to Peter as he still struggled against them, though now, instead of out of defence, it was merely out of fun. Peter laughed as he tossed two of the Boys off his chest before grabbing one in a headlock to fluff his hair quickly before he was hit in the side by the Twins' combined attack on his side flank. When Peter was down, all the Boys were back, having escaped the adults (mainly by kicking them in the shins and running).

Thomas watched this from afar, shaking his head. He sighed and started walking to Peter and the Boys, his worry for Peter stronger than his desire to play. He turned at looked to the two adults beside him, one of them looking to him curiously. "Is that ... you, Thomas?"

Thomas glanced to Neal, unable to figure whom he was. The fact that the adult knew his name was enough to alert him; though this adult looked not-at-all familar and Thomas had to refrain was stepping away. "Who're you?" Thomas asked instead.

" ... Bae," Neal began, "don't you remember?"

Thomas tilted his head to the side, trying to remember through the hazy memorises of his past. The name seemed familar but Thomas was never so sure anymore, what with all the other names he'd already forgotten and the names of the Boys he'd finally been known to have memorised. He shrugged to Neal and looked back to the Boys and Peter with a slight smile, thinking that this was how they had been during the Last War; though the scabs on Peter's lip and Peter's odd behaviour were moreorless disconcerting as all Thomas could think of was when Peter had acted the same at his former second's betrayal.

This War was looking all too similar to the Last.

...

Benedict was (as much as he hated to admit it) impressed by the Tiger's hunting skills; in mere minutes, she'd downed a good half of his Demons and was still coming strong, slashing her stone talon across ankles and wrists and throats, anyway to keep them down.

Benedict knew her real motive was him; the only way to satisfy her thirst for revenge was to kill him. The Tiger didn't know where he really was, though; he was _everywhere_. He was in the wind, in the trees, in the water, in the soil - _in the shadows._

This confusion was obvious to the Tiger; she had had a target before but now, as she sniffed the air, she couldn't find the prey with the X mark across his face. She could see the approaching shadows; she was aware that shadows couldn't be hurt by simple matters as knives (her father and the Elders had taught her that) but she still struck them down and struck them hard.

Benedict could feel Felix's panic rising; he simply pushed Felix's reactions down, telling him it was merely a part of his plan.

The Tiger's eyes snapped to the cloaked figure with the X; she'd heard its voice on the wind and could see the stars above blink and twinkle erratically: _That's him! That's him!_

The Devil watched as the Tiger advanced; the remaining four Demons rushed the animal - _the savage_ - but she'd seen it coming. She clawed holes through flesh and cut X's across exposed skin that could be easily spotted; the Devil recognised the marking as it was a pattern. She was Marking the Demons to more easily decipher them.

Benedict had to admit it was clever; it reminded him of the cuts given to prisoners of War, wounds inflicted to remember what side they were truly on. As the Tiger neared, Benedict watched her movements, no matter how subtle; he caught the twitch in her nose, the flex of her muscles.

He may've been expecting her to attack but not as ruthlessly - as _savagely _- as she did just then fore she cut through the throat of a Demon until he gurgled and his eyes turned absent; then she whirled and pounced at Benedict on all-fours, throwing him backwards.

Felix began to panic again, the emotion much stronger this time. All the two could see through Felix's gaze was the hatred and confusion in the Tiger's burning eyes, the mixed bloods upon the stone tip, the scars across the Tiger's face - her stripes. Benedict, himself, had to force down both of their roused anxiety.

The Tiger leered in close, gave a sniff. She could smell two - the scent of Fear and the scent of Death; the two were typically together but to be in the _same _vessel ... It wasn't right and Tiger Lily knew that. The scents were familar; one of tainted blood and another of defeated loyalty.

The Tiger snarled at the scent of blood and looked the Devil in the face. She brought up her paw and extended her bloody claw. The moment she was about to strike, a Demon whom had earlier been set to watch Wendy, fumbled with a crossbow until the arrow was gone and jutting from the savage's shoulder blade. The bloody claw slipped from her paw and she fell forward upon the Devil; he pushed her aside, aware that she was still alive by the soundness of her rising chest.

"Devin," The Devil called, "good shot."

The said Demon nodded, his eyes wide and his shaking hands holding somewhat firm on the crossbow, his scarred cheek glowing underneath the torchlight.

"Now that the Tiger's been declawed," The Devil said, chuckling at his own clever play on symbolism, "let's some _real _fun."

...

Darren and Judas were nearing the hideaway when they saw it - _heard it _- overhead. The stars were blinking and winking in some sort of code, that much was certain; fore the stars were in a panic and such a panic it was.

On the wind came the retelling; Judas covered his ears and Darren stopped cold. It wasn't the Elders telling the story; it was Benedict.

Darren thought he'd never hear that voice again and it terrified him to the core to hear the older voice, much past broken and still teeming with spite, greed.

_Darren, would you care to be a _messenger _for me? I promise Pan won't shoot you on your way in, _Benedict chuckled darkly, his voice hitting Darren on all sides. _All you need to tell him is that I've got two of his friends with me; a petite little Lily and a Darling girl. Can you do a simple task as that without failing?_

Darren had stiffened and he stood still, his temple pulsing. "There are no girls on the island," He said firmly.

_I'm sure they'd beg to differ, _Benedict continued. _Alas, you are partly right; if Pan doesn't hear of them, well. _He gave a distant mocking chuckle, _Neverland won't have girls for long. Oh, but don't worry; my Demons will have fun with them first before I rid myself of their ... distraction. There is a war going on, you know._

Darren narrowed his eyes at the obvious threat of the girls' safety. He sighed heavily and closed his eyes tightly. "I'll tell him."

_Good, _Benedict laughed before his voice turned dark. _A word of forewarning: I want a fair trade. You cross me again ..._

"I know," Darren said heavily.

_Well, you _are _Damned for a reason, Darren, _Benedict continued, the winds resting as his voice evanesced, _but I wasn't talking to you._

...

"For the last time, I am _not _going to tell you what happened," Peter said, giving his Boys a stern glare from across the fire. They were all watching Peter intently, obviously awaiting a story telling, to which Peter was blatantly refusing. By now, even the adults were curious.

"Did you _really _kiss a boy, Peter?" Coon asked, hanging upside-down from a rafter.

"Kissing boys is gross, Peter," Coop said, hanging alongside his identical brother.

"How do you know that? Have you tried?" Curly shot up at them from the floor.

"Well ... No," Coop replied, glancing to his brother. "Have you tried it, Coon?"

"I can't say I have, Coop," Coon replied, deep in thought. He glanced over to Peter. "I suppose Peter's the only one who has."

Peter rolled his eyes, walking over to pull the two from the creaking rafter. He nudged them to the other Boys and said, once again, "I didn't kiss a Boy."

"Your words say something but your lip says something diff-er-ent," Fabian sang.

"Singing's girly, Fabe," Coop said.

"Sod off," Fabian countered. "I ain't no girl."

"You've got a voice like one," Coon said, coming to his brother's aid.

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose. "You three - seperate," Peter said, motioning to Fabian and the Twins.

"But, _Peter_ - "

"Do it," Peter snapped, raising an eyebrow, awaiting their defiance. The three groaned, the Twins and Fabian turning their backs on each other to sit as far from one another as was possible.

"So," Ted began again, "are you going to tell us?"

"Oh, sure, I'll tell you," Peter said with bitter sarcasm, "I'll tell you all a story about a boy who was a little too _curious_, a little too reckless."

"Is this that Sun kid again?" Curly complained.

Ted cuffed Curly's ear. "Shut up, this is my favourite story! Tell it, Peter!"

Peter waited until Curly bit down his pride and released Ted's hair from his fists. Then he began to tell the story:

"My father told me this one, about a boy named Icarus," He began. "Icarus' father was a man by the name of Daedalus - he was a bloody genius, which was why him and his son were imprisoned - "

" - for cheating," Coop said loudly.

" - Yes, for cheating and helping the King's enemy," Peter continued.

"Kings are stupid," Coon said, his brother agreeing with him.

David, having heard this, turned to the two and said, "I'm a King." All the Boys turned and looked at David with distrusting eyes.

"Actually, he's a Prince," Peter interrupted, glancing to David. "Back to the story - Daedalus wanted to find a way out of his prision and bring his son with him - "

"Wish my Da would've been like that," Ted began solemnly, "instead of leaving me at the Home."

" - and in order to do that, Daedalus constructed these wings made out of wax and feathers, so the two could fly away," Peter tried to continue.

" - Peter, I don't like this story," Tibbles began, "I don't like that the kid dies in the end."

"Hey!" Ted shouted. "Stop spoiling it!"

"You've heard it before!" Tibbles said back.

"No, I 'aven't!" Ted said, grabbing a stone from the floor to throw it at Tibbles.

"You don't look charming at all," Coon said, looking at David. "You look _old._"

"Oi! Stop throwing rocks!" Tibbles shouted as Tootles clapped his hands at Ted's improved aim.

"ALL OF YOU, KNOCK IT OFF!" Peter shouted over the Boys' arguing; all the Boys fell silent, as Peter hardly rose his voice. Peter huffed and glared at them all. "We have guests; now stop arguing and _listen._ It's time to go to bed, alright? Without a story. None of you deserve one, the way you've been acting."

Ted's shoulders slumped, as did much of the other Boys'.

"_And,_ I'm not about to tell you what happened," Peter continued, "'Far as I'm concerned, that lies with me and only me."

"But, _Peter _- "

"No buts about it," Peter snapped; even so, many of the Boys giggled. Peter rolled his eyes but snickered, too. "I'll go get you all a blanket, alright? I reckon many of you need your sleep."

Very soon, Peter had all the Boys wrapped in fur blankets, though many of them stayed wide-awake. They all watched Peter, as if expecting something out of their Leader. One of them finally broke the silence by asking, "Peter, will you tell us a story now?"

"Nope," Peter said, laying back on the floor. "I'm sure there's someone here who would, though ... " Peter glanced over to Henry and asked, "Henry, you up for it? Want to tell them all a story they haven't heard before?"

"Uh, I don't know," Henry started. "Which have they heard?"

"A lot of them," Curly interjected. "Mainly the lesson ones; Peter thinks they'll help us understand things."

"I still don't understand kissing boys, though," Ted said, a bit concerned of the topic.

Peter shot Ted a look before turning his softening gaze to Henry. "Go on, Henry; they'll be fine with any story you've got."

"Um ... Okay," Henry began, licking his lips, "okay, fine. The story of, well, the story of ... Storybrooke."

...

The story, by fair, wasn't told fore by the time Henry had begun the telling and the Boys had gotten enticed by his words, Darren and Judas had found the hideaway beneath the collection of screaming stars, bright as a beacon in the night.

Darren took off running for the hideaway, knowing Benedict would have his skin if he didn't tell Peter of this; and to know that Benedict had such sinister plans for the girls only caused him to run faster and harder than ever before.

Judas fell behind and after a while, he walked through the Dark, unable to see. He watched Darren rush and after a long while, he rushed down, as well, tripping over a root on his way.

Darren slammed his fist against the door, feeling the Darkness encompass him, swallow him and he panicked. Hell, he panicked. He started shouting and the stars screamed with him: "They have the girls, Peter! Peter, open up! He has them! Tiger Lily and Wendy! _He has them!_"

...

Peter stood, a spear already in hand; his Boys were up and armed, as well, having grabbed cudgels and daggers from the tables of Lost things. Peter turned to them and would've told them to stay back, had he not heard the voice of one of his Boys and the words that followed.

Peter threw the door open, looking at Darren, affronted. "Girls?"

Peter stepped aside, allowing Darren and Judas in. The two looked tired and unkempt from living away in the Forest for nearly a week and trying to survive in the dastardly war conditions.

"Yes, girls," Darren spat. "He has them. Benedict has them."

Peter froze in mid-turn to Judas; he looked back up at Darren. "Benedict?"

"_Yes_," Darren continued. "He has Tiger Lily and Wendy."

"Who?" Peter asked blankly.

"Wait, Wendy?" Neal asked, pushing himself from the floor. "Like ... _Wendy Darling_?"

Peter glanced to Neal. "Who?"

"He's got her and Tiger Lily," Darren continued. "He wants a trade."

Peter looked between Darren and Neal, utterly confused.

Neal's forehead wrinkled evidently as he said, "What sort of trade?"

"Wendy and Tiger Lily," Darren began, "for Peter and Pan."

**We've gotten past the 100 review mark and this is only chapter eleven! That's great, you guys, I seriously can't dskjhl;afgjs you're all so perfect**

**Yes, so much shit just happened. Tiger Lily downed at least eleven guys, though, which is pretty badass, but Benedict's got so many plans. **

**He isn't going to hurt Tiger Lily or Wendy, though; Benedict doesn't want to hurt the girls, he's using them as bait. (I don't know if that's any better, but)**

**You also got to meet a lot of the Boys; Peter typically calls them by their real names but on occasion, he will call them by their nicknames (so Thomas - Nibs, Ted - Cubby ). Also, Benedict still has plenty other Boys/Demons back at Peter's old camp which will become more evident later on.**

**Yeah, so things are going to be happening quickly and swiftly henceforth. This week I have Finals so I'll be swamped and anxiety-wracked, but I know somewhat how this story'll go (which is probably a bad thing as Peter'll be going through Hell; he'll have Henry and the Boys to pull him through, though).**

**So. Winter finale tonight. Good luck, you guys. Good luck to all of us.**


	12. Pan's Promised Plans

**Chapter Twelve: Pan's Promised Plans**

_"Why do you have to spoil everything? We have fun, don't we? I taught you to fly and to fight. What more could there be? __" -Peter Pan (2003)_

"This is our plan of action," Peter began, indicating to the dirt at his single bent knee which he crouched upon. He held a sturdy stick in his fist, its point upward to the rafters of the thatched roof. The rest of the Boys and Henry and Co. were positioned around Pan as he pointed the sharpened end of the stick to the war tactics cut in the packed dirt. He aimed the stick at the marking of _O_s in the middle of a clearing. "These are our enemies, alright? Have we got that? That's me," Peter said, making a mark through a _P_ he'd named as himself; it was surrounded by the _O_s, setting itself between two lowercase _T_s with minature _O_s atop their outstreched arms. "Between the girls, like I said. Once I'm between them, they'll run and all of you," Peter made a swipe across the boundaries he'd proclaimed the Forest, "will go and nab them before the lot can."

Nibs raised his hand and Peter glanced to him. "Yes?"

"Well ... What if they're in the Forest, too?" He asked and Peter arched a brow, hearing the rest of Boys agree with Nibs. "What do we do then?"

"You'll have to result to whichever extra plan goes with the situation," Peter said, shrugging. "I would suggest Plan M or Plan D."

"And, those would be ... ?" Regina began, her arms crossed, trying to see over the heads of the Boys in front of her.

"Oh, right, you lot haven't done this before," Peter began, muttering as his brow furrowed. "Whichever," He said, blinking, "Plan D's Direct Approach and Plan M's Magic."

"_Magic_? You know, I'm actually on a tight-no-magic-leash," Regina said, giving Emma a look from over the Lost Boys. "I can't do any magic."

"Why, of course you can!" Peter said, causing Regina to turn her head back in his direction. "War conditions change everything, Queeny, _especially_ the game. We'll need all the help we can get, rescuing those two. Benny isn't going to let us just _walk off _with them; and then there's the matter of what he wants with me."

Charming shared a look with his daughter and his wife; Emma, who'd had a hand on Henry's shoulder, tightened her grip on her son. "Who's this Benny?" Charming asked, causing Peter's eyes to fall.

"Doesn't matter," Peter put off, looking hard at the war tactics drawn in the dirt. "Any other questions?"

"Yeah," Coop began, "What're you going to do about this exchange?"

"Yeah," Coon continued, looking to his brother, "What're you going to do, Peter?"

"I'll figure something out," Peter said, shrugging, "I'm pretty good on my feet."

"So, you haven't a plan at all?" Rumple spoke up from the behind everyone; he'd been listening to his old friend's plans in silence. Peter pushed himself from the dirt, standing; the Boys crowding around Peter backed away, giving him room to stand to his full height. Peter looked Rumple head-on and laughed, his face cracking into a smile.

"I do have a plan," Peter said, grinning at his old friend, not seeing the withered husk of the man he'd become but of the youthful boy still inside, trapped within the Dark One's eyes, "as hard as it is to believe, I _do _have a plan. You just have to trust me, all of you. Just trust me."

...

_"Come _on_, Rumple," Peter said, walking with his friend past another open window, wafting the smell of baking bread. Peter looked to the window curtly and licked his lips, his eyes showing the same hunger as Rumple's; he turned those eyes to the young hungry boy's, saying with a little more coaxing than he'd used earlier, "It'll be easy, I promise. I've nicked things plenty of times; you're _starving_. Do you honestly believe your father'll have enough money from his bloody sport to feed you - or that he'll even remember?"_

_"Peter, I'm not going to steal," Rumple whispered sharply, glancing about the square nervously. Boys talking to themselves were presumably mad - especially when they spoke to themselves aloud about plans to thieve fresh bread. _

_Peter rolled his eyes, catching Rumple's nervous looks. "Well, you can't with you looking so damn guilty," He accused. "They'd hear your stomach miles away, anyways." Peter softened his gaze as Rumple's stomach let out a jarring snarl and Rumple clutched his abdomen tightly. "Look, I'll teach you. Just follow me, okay? When I get in, keep some distance."_

_Peter cut a look to the building and grabbed a hold of Rumple's tiny wrist, leading him through the crowd. They wove through the people, ignoring passer-bys as they ignored in return. They'd all seen that Cheat's son out here for a while now and were accustomed to his odd bumbling and mumbles to himself; it wasn't especially abnormal any longer and they typically just ignored him as he was too young to be much of a trouble. So they thought._

_Peter led Rumple part-way to the door, the savoury scent of the bread filling their lungs. Rumple made a pained noise from the back of his throat and Peter chewed his lip, letting go of Rumple's small hand. "Don't get lost while I'm gone," Peter advised, about to go, "and don't you go and talk to any grown-ups, okay? If anything happens, you _run. _Alright? We'll meet back at your house if anything happens."_

_"Right," Rumple said, his lip trembling for a split second; he bit down on his nether lip, trying to cover it up but Peter caught the movement and ducked quickly, placing his thumb against Rumple's small chin, his fingers holding Rumple's face up so the two met each other's eyes._

_"There isn't any reason to be afraid, Rumple," Peter said. "I'm not leaving you; soon as I get some bread, I'll be back. Just trust me, okay?"_

_Rumple nodded, Peter's hand leaving Rumple's chin as Peter turned, squaring his shoulders through the beggar scraps he'd grown accustomed to wearing. Peter's dusty boots scuffed at the dirt as he weaved through the adults, keeping his expression apathetic, his eyes set on the bread cooling in window sills and from out of the glowing mouths of ovens._

_Rumple stood in the middle of the street, trying to stay invisible; he had no clue how Peter could do it so well. Rumple tried to find a wall to stand near but each time he tried, a person or a horse carriage blocked his path._

_Fairly soon, Rumple lost sight of Peter when a jeering circle of young boys came from the right of him; they surrounded Rumple, each of them getting a good spot to glare at him. Rumple tried to see past them to where Peter was and how close he must've been to getting bread, when taller adults crossed his line of vision; one of the boys, the leader, took his spot in front of Rumple, blocking his view completely._

_"Well, well," The boy spoke. "Isn't it wittle Wumple, all awone."_

_Rumple sighed, turning his tired gaze up to his main tormentor, Donovan. "What is it this time?"_

_"A couple of my lads have a bone to pick with you and your _cheat _daddy," Donovan began, his voice a cruel snarl, though his eyebrows had furrowed at Rumple's lack of response. "We ought to teach you and him a lesson, haven't we?"_

_Two of the lads rolled up their sleeves, revealing thick arms and chubby fists. Rumple didn't even glance at them, just closed his eyes and braced himself._

_No fists went flying, though. No punches left purple bruising over Rumple's thin bony arms. There was merely an amused laugh and an aloft voice, Peter's, as if he'd just happened upon Rumple's usual beat-up. "Now, now, lads," Peter said, "shouldn't you all be kicking balls instead of _heads_?"_

_Rumple opened his eyes, seeing Peter - he'd never been so happy to see Peter in all his life - standing with his head towering feet over Donovan's, looking as if curiously to the small boy in the center of the group. _

_Donovan had gone rigid at the thought of being caught in the act and he kept his face away from the unfamilar adultish voice behind him, glancing to the faces of his friends, seeing looks of confusion and wide-eyed fear. Donovan turned then, looking at the older boy and the loaf of bread he held in his hand. "Who're you?" He asked, instead of answering to the boy's inquiry._

_"Well, aren't I glad you asked," Peter said, placing a hand on Donovan's shoulder to push him aside; Peter strode ahead, wrapping an arm around Rumple's small shoulders, "I'm Rumple's _brother_. So, if you have a bone to pick with him, you can come pick it with me instead. Now, we've got places to be and bread to eat so we better get on our way then. Mind if you three step aside?"_

_The boys in question did as they were told, though not on their own accord. They would've listened to the older boy's authoritive voice anyhow but their voices had been taken, their limbs gone numb at the sight of this taller figure. They moved aside - as if by magic! - and the lot of them watched Rumple and his older brother go, his arm still slung around the younger's shoulders as Rumple bit a large bite from his half of the bread loaf, looking up at Peter's face._

_"So, I reckon you didn't see me get it, then," Peter said, smirking._

_"No," Rumple said, swallowing thickly, the staleness of the bread scratching at his throat as it struggled to go down; even so, the bread was heavenly, still somehow warm, even though it hadn't been in an oven in days and it seemed to be coated in butter from cows that wouldn't of surprised Rumple had they been of the King's own pick._

_"We'll try again another time," Peter promised, glancing to Rumple's small impish face, eyes full of childish mirth as he gnawed on the bread. "Now, how about we get you some jam to go with that bread, yeah?"_

...

"Boys, arms up," Peter commanded, his hands folded behind his back as he surveyed his line like a general does a set of soliders. Each Boy held out their weapons; Thomas, a knife, with his lucky rabbit's foot hanging from the handle; the Twins, two slingshots; Ted, a club of knotted wood; Harold, a spear; Fabian and Nibs, bows; Curly, a stone dagger; Darren, a crossbow and an irritated expression; Judas, a discarded spear tip; Tootles, a knife smaller and shorter than the rest to match his small fist.

Peter surveyed his line of Boys with eyes that were trying not to smile fore he had to be a general and generals do not smile when leading their kids to war. Instead, Peter looked to the group of adults and his Truest Believer, all of them watching idly from the sidelines. Peter raised an eyebrow. "What are all of you doing? Get in line!"

Emma's eyebrows jolted at the authority in Peter's voice; she couldn't believe that this kid was bossing her around. Neither could the rest of the adults. Charming and Killian shared a look of disbelief. Regina looked personally affronted. Neal rolled his eyes and looked to his son, the two sharing a slight smile. Rumple sighed and was the first to take his place beside Harold.

Peter struggled to keep character, looking down his nose at Rumple as he lifted his chin. He watched Henry step up beside his grandfather and Peter's gaze softened and he lowered his chin, not looking nearly as much as a general as he would've wanted. Neal took his place beside his son next and Peter looked the three over, catching the resemblance in their eyes and the childish mirth that glittered in each of them.

Snow and Charming glanced to each other, walking to the side to take a stand beside the youngest of the Boys, Tootles. Emma and Regina stood last, the two of them looking to the Boys and Peter, whom looked back to them expectantly. Peter watched the two patiently though he shouldn't have been so patient fore he was irritated with their indecision as there wasn't time to stand around and ponder one's thoughts; even so, Peter stayed apathetic, a general with a gun to the chin, a Captain with a ship about to go down, a Leader leading his followers in the wrong direction.

Emma went to side with Neal, Regina following her in a moment of pressing confusion. Now, apart from the group, only stood Hook.

"Well, come on, pirate, aren't you going to join in?" Peter asked, breaking character for a moment to allow his annoyance to show through.

Killian sighed, looking to Peter. "Do I really have to?"

"Boys," Peter began, mirroring realistic offence, "is that ... a _codfish _talking back? Do you all hear it, too?"

"No, Peter, of course we don't," Thomas spoke up. "Codfish don't speak; how can they possibly talk back?"

Peter narrowed his eyes to Killian, nodding. "Exactly. Now, pirates, they sure talk - even the irrititating one-handed ones - though they shouldn't. Least not to the General."

"Right, Peter," the Boys answered in reply.

"And this codfish's got two feet," Peter continued, "and no fins. How does he swim?"

"He doesn't," Nibs began. "He sinks."

"Right," Peter said, stepping forward until he was close to Hook's face, looking to his eyes, into his eyes, looking for that little boy somewhere, drowing in the vast ocean of blue. "He sinks because he doesn't listen to the Leader, to the Captain. Isn't that right, Killy?" Peter arched an eyebrow before he grinned, catching Hook's suppressed smirk, catching the sparkle of the sunlight catching the curling waves. "Now, get in line, pirate, before I have to say it again."

Killian obeyed, finding a spot between Ted and the Twins. He held his hook aloft when Peter ordered them to hold up their arms. Emma, her cutlass; Charming, his sword; Snow, her bow; Regina, her proud stature and her scarred lip; Rumple, his cane; Neal, his knife. Henry didn't move to outstretch anything and this, Peter noticed, his eyes narrowing.

"Henry," Peter said, his tone not as harsh as it had been with Killian, "why haven't you armed yourself?"

" ... I don't have anything," Henry said, staring at his feet, refusing to look up to Peter, to see the disappointment he expected.

"Of course you have something," Peter said, crossing to Henry in two wide strides, grabbing his hands with his own. "You've got _these. _Your hands, your strength, your _heart._ The fight's inside of you, Henry, you just got to find an outlet for it. I'd start here," Peter said, his fingers twisting with Henry's own so that Henry's palms were open and aimed outward.

For a long moment, Peter forgot about why he was doing this, why he was interwining his fingers with Henry's, why he was talking in such soft tones, why he had all his Boys in a line with Henry's family, why they all had weapons, and why he had battle tactics drawn near his feet - all he knew was he was close to Henry and he could see his eyes and they were so big and full of hope, full of belief - _in Peter, he believed in Peter, and Peter himself couldn't believe it but here he was, seeing it, and that seemed to be enough _- and Peter lost himself, moreso in the caramel warmth of Henry's lit eyes and the coolness of Peter's hands against Henry's that he lingered too long into his touch and when he was back, he had to blink several times and shake himself from out of Henry's grasp, from out of his fuzzy head, feeling the eyes of his Boys and Henry's family staring at him, one half expectant, another accusatory.

Peter cleared his throat, nodding. "Arms up," He said again, an afterthought, an echo. "Let's get started, then."

...

_"No, no, _no_,_ _Rumple," Peter sighed. "Haven't I taught you _anything_?"_

_"Actually, you haven't," Rumple huffed. "Yet you still expect me to go out there and steal just as you have plenty of times before - with plenty of experience, as you've said a dozen times, too."_

_"Have I been saying that?" Peter asked._

_"Yes, you have," Rumple continued, glaring at Peter. "And I've been trying, Peter, but I can't do it, not like you. You go out there and it's as if they can't see you - and I've started to think ... " Rumple's voice trailed away and he looked back to his shoes, his lip pinching together._

_"What? You've started to think what?" Peter inquired, knowing rightly what Rumple was thinking and that Rumple, as usual, _was _right; he always was when it came to Peter._

_"Nothing," Rumple said, his voice missing its former strength behind it, the fight that fueled it. _

_Peter stared hard at Rumple, irritated that he was seeing himself in the hopelessness of the boy's lowered eyes. "You know, thinking's a weapon," Peter said after a moment of silence, watching Rumple closely. He saw the boy's eyes flick up to Peter and Peter caught the motion, held it with his own gaze, matched it. "It's a valuable weapon, surely. You could use it whenever, even if you've no punch to throw and no knife to thrust - anyone can take those away from you, Rumple, but the one they can't touch is the most precious and powerful of them all: your mind. They can't take your thoughts from you, never. Do you understand that?"_

_Rumple looked up and blinked, meeting Peter's suddenly hard gaze. It seemed cold, foreign, hurt, broken, lost - all the feelings that toiled in the storm of Peter's iris, all crashing together, crammed about the one looking glass to the outside world; though Rumple wasn't exactly sure what any of those feelings were seeing or if they even could see out at all. "Yes," Rumple said, lying smoothly, as Peter had taught him; the one thing he could do best, lying, like his father, his Cheat of a father._

_"Now, let's try again," Peter said, looking across the milling courtyard to a stand of fruit in the midst of a crowd. "I want you to steal one of those apples."_

_Rumple looked to the fruit stand, to the huge crowd, to the set of polished apples of ruby-red hide that glistened like rubies; delectable, sweet rubies with cool juicy flesh that Rumble hadn't tasted in far too long. "I can't," Rumple said, shaking his head. "There's too many people. It's impossible."_

_"Nothing's impossible, Rumple," Peter said, looking out at the apples with the same expression of longing as his friend. "Nothing at all, long as you - "_

_" - Believe, I know," Rumple said, "but I don't believe. I don't believe I can come back here without getting caught."_

_"Well, that's no way to look at things," Peter said, turning his gaze to Rumple. "There's too many _if_s in the world, Rumple; you've got to take a few of them."_

_"And risk getting my hand chopped at the wrist? No thank you."_

_"You'll regret it if you don't," Peter said, not looking out to the apples any longer but to the boy beside him, his head now a little taller than Peter's midriff. Peter felt a pang at the boy's height, at his growth in only a little while._

_Rumple did go out and get the apple and ate it, core and all, spitting the seeds into the ground outside his father's house to regrow the fruits for him to eat the next summer so that he wouldn't have to steal again; he didn't like to steal and he figured this way he wouldn't have to and then he could show Peter he could care for himself without having to thieve his way through life._

_Rumple hadn't a clue Peter hadn't really been speaking of apples though Peter never told him otherwise fore there was no one to tell Peter or to remind him. Peter was going by mere gut feeling - and that gut feeling was a horrible mortal thing: hunger._

...

Even The Devil felt hunger at such desperate times though he didn't feel the a hunger for food, more a desire for blood, a trickle of red from the corner of a smiling lip, images he'd seen painted on cave walls covered in chalk scratches and crosshatched slashes of days upon days, stuck in a cave, lost in a war where men were slewed by their own side of the calvary just for giving another man dishonour to his name.

War was like that; Benedict knew and now Felix knew, too, from their minds crammed together. War had killed a part of Benedict, tainted his name until it dripped with blood and spite and greed, until his swordarm was covered in scar tissue that glowed black against Felix's own arm in the shadows of torch fire. They weren't one, not by a long shot, but they knew one another's emotions - their conjoined love for Peter, the strongest, beside Benedict's desire to keep his promise.

...

_"When you come back," Peter said, watching his brother scrape the dirt clods from his boots, "are we going to play? Like we used to?"_

_Peter watched his elder brother's face, the shadows cast by his nose and his hollowed cheeks and the tight line of his lips twitched as he ceased in his scraping of his boots, his fingers tightening along the hilt of his knife. "_Play_?" The word sounded foreign and childish, a capsule of poison leaking on his tongue and he wished to spit it out onto the dirt but refrained, for Peter's sake._

_"Yeah," Peter said, grabbing a wooden sword from its discarded spot against the wall, ignoring the thick layer of dust his fingers slid through, disturbed. "Knights."_

_"Being a knight's not all fun and games, Peter," Peter grimanced at his elder brother's knowing, belitting tone._

_"I just want to learn," Peter said in earnest, afraid his brother would stop talking to him again, leave him alone in that house, that empty house, where his only friends were the shadows upon the walls and the ghosts of his father's words, his stories, adventures never played out, merely left to collect dust and fallen promises of a happy family ripped at the seams._

_"You can learn when you join," His brother replied, going back to flicking a clod of dried muck on the floor. Peter watched him, his shoulders sagging, the wooden blade of his sword hitting the floor._

_Peter steeled his fist around the wood hilt, allowing it to bite into the soft flesh of his skin. He bit down his jaw and his brother looked up at the sound, raising an eyebrow. "What?"_

_"Mum says I'm too young to join," Peter said, scraping his sword in the dust._

_"Well, you are."_

_"I am not," Peter huffed. "You were my age when you went - "_

_" - We needed the help," His brother interrupted. _

_" - We don't need it anymore," Peter said, angry; he pulled his sword up and aimed the tip at his brother accusingly. "You and I both know how Dad'd feel if he knew you were a part of the King's calvary."_

_Peter's brother flicked his knife out from his boot, a sixth finger upon his hand. "Well, dead men don't know things, do they, Peter? If he hadn't gone out and _died_ and left us, then I wouldn't of had to join the King's forces for extra rations, would I of?"_

_"Don't even pretend like you don't absolutely _love _kissing the King's arse!" Peter shouted, raising his voice as his brother shot to his feet. "You don't even care about _us _anymore! What happened to your promise, Benny? The one you made Dad before he left?"_

_"That _promise_," Benny snarled, not looking anything like Captain Pan's son in that moment, "it died with him, out at sea; I can't keep a family happy that never was."_

...

Benedict looked about the camp that wasn't rightfully his, one he'd stolen along with its people. He didn't feel guilt - Devils weren't accustomed to such things - but he could feel Felix's emotions and that was enough for them to somewhat bother Benedict into the knowledge that guilt was a horrible feeling and he wanted it gone. So, he decided, he wanted Felix gone, too.

He wouldn't do it yet - Felix might be useable as leverage further in the game and he still needed his body to serve as replacement until his was no longer Lost - but he was getting irritated, surely, with Felix's feelings cramming in on his thoughts.

Benedict had wanted to plan everything thoroughly in his head, map out his next move and the moves after that, how to react if Peter did something unexpected. Benedict wanted to slice his forehead to force Felix out but it wasn't going to work that way and Benedict knew that. Latching onto Felix's shadow all that time ago, he should've been aware of the Boy's loyalty to Peter. Even if Benedict had managed to lead him astray, the loyalty was still there and ... something more than undying faith and devotion.

_Love. _Even the sound of it sickened Benedict.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd ever felt love or at least a healthy dose of it. He could faintly remember silken ebony curls to match the word, a pink smile that would say it, bright eyes that would twinkle it. The face was gone the next moment he'd blink, the smile as red as blood, the eyes bleeding pools down pale freckled cheeks, the ringlets curled and burnt black like smoke from a fire of toxins.

Benedict pushed the thought away, killed it, replaced it with another face: Peter's face. An impish nose, a quirked mouth set in a smirk, fully-lashed eyes alight with a mischievous glow, a single arched eyebrow. He wanted Peter more than Benedict thought he'd ever wanted a thing; though he supposed that was just Peter rubbing off on him, turning his mind innocent and naive and _weak._

Love was weakness. He knew that. He'd learned that.

He'd seen it in Peter last time, in his hesitiation to kill Benedict even after his betrayal. When he'd held the knife, poised over Benedict's heart, how his eyes had welled with pain and how he'd shaken his head, lowered the dagger, looked to Felix. "_I can't._"

Benedict had goaded Peter on, told him where to stab. Peter hadn't done a thing, had just shaken his head again and handed Felix the knife. "_You promised and you ... You failed, Benny. I don't tolerate cheaters and you're plenty aware._"

Peter had left, entrusted Felix with the knife, with the cutting of Benedict's heart. Felix would've, too, had Benedict not turned the tables.

_Had you not cheated,_ Felix managed to get through to Benedict.

Benedict ignored him, his mind setting the scene; he chould see it all again, himself on the Forest floor, alight torches stabbed in the dirt, Felix over him with the knife in his hand. "_Why won't he just kill me himself_?" He had asked and Felix had replied, albeit with a moment of hesitiation, deeming Benedict dead as soon as his words left his lips, "_He ... He loves you. And he can't possibly kill what he loves._"

Felix watched this, as well, seeing the memory as a bitter pang in his gut, one the both of them felt. Benedict's past self continued speaking, his voice nothing but an echo, "_Yet he lets you take the fall meant for him. I'd say that's worser form than a simple stab to the back, don't you think, Felix? If your loyalty - your _love _- were enough, why would he be foolish enough to let you take his place here_?"

"_No_," Felix had said, shaking his head, holding out the dagger, its edge glinting in the torchlight. "_No, he isn't like - I don't _love _him, I mean - shut up_!"

"_I thought dead men didn't speak_," Benedict had chuckled. "_Yet here I am, speaking freely. Now, Felix, what if I could propose a ... deal, of sorts. You and I work together and we can both get what we desire._"

Felix had looked down at Benedict, unaware that his shadow was being stretched along the floor, closer and closer to Benedict's sprawled form. "_And what's that_?"

"_My little brother_."

* * *

**Yeah, guys, I have no clue what I'm doing anymore.**

**And the cat's offically out of the bag with Benedict and Peter. I'll go over it more in later chapters so that it doesn't seem completely incestual because it really isn't. Benedict loved (and still loves) a woman and Peter's pansexual (because the Greek god Pan and all of those mythology references that have cropped up both in the show and the fandom).**

**You all also get a bunch of Peter and young!Rumple fluff because that shit's adorable. In this version and how I see it, they were only close friends - enough to be confused as family and the two, after a while, **_**did **_**adopt one another as the other's brother and there was some confusion on Rumple's part on what really happened to his father. Or that's the way I'm going about this.**

**Happy holidays, stay safe, and let's try and survive this massive bullshit from the writers for leaving us for months on end after unruly slaying three main characters and bringing the Blue Bitch back!**


	13. Finding a Way

**Chapter Thirteen: Finding a Way**

_"She was leaving you, Pan! Your Wendy was leaving you. Why should she stay? What have you to offer? You are incomplete. Let us now take a peep into the future, shall we?" -Peter Pan (2003)_

"Do _any _of you know how to properly fight?" Peter shouted, exasperated, a knife barnished in his own hand. "We've got a war around the corner and none of you are drawing blood!"

The Boys lowered their weapons along with their heads, avoiding their General's gaze, looking to the clean blades and the floor amiss of spilt blood. Charming watched them, his expression affronted; he looked up and met Peter's gaze, his own brow furrowed. "If you're training, you shouldn't be drawing blood," He said and Peter flared his nostrils, striding forward, his knife point to David's Adam's apple.

"Look, _Princey_," Peter snarled, "I know you're accustomed to whatever training you had back in your land but Neverland'sdifferent. _Unique._ This is an island and you're fighting with _animals._ There is none of your blasted _government_, no bloody _chivalry_. There's only living or dying; and what's in-between, you _never _want to be.

"Out there," Peter said, flicking his blade back to his hand, causing it to nick David's throat, a bead of red to sliver from the cut and roll down his pale neck, "they're not going to be mericful; that's weakness, a damn sure sign you'll be killed. You show one ounce of weakness, a second of hesitiation ... You're done for."

The Boys all watched Peter, nodding, agreeing, even as he held his knife out and pointed it to a Ted, close enough so that it grazed his nose. "Cubby," Peter said, "Come forward."

Ted gulped but nodded, his arm numb, fingers unfeeling around the wooden handle of his club. He dragged it behind him as he complied to Peter's demand, a foot or so in front of everyone else, out of line, vulnerable.

Peter looked at him, his arm still rigid, the knife point lowered slightly from Ted's stepping forward. Peter stared at him with a rather hard expression, as if he weren't looking into the eyes of a frightened boy but into the eyes of Death, himself. Peter kept his eyes locked on Ted's, saying after a long stretch of a pause, "Your club. Use it."

Ted glanced to his sturdy club, its knotted top in a crater of disturbed dirt, as he'd dragged it in a rut. He glanced to it, licked his lips nervously. "Use it, Peter?"

"Yes," Peter said, his eyes only on the Bear before him; he tilted his head to the side, awaiting its answer, its snarl, a click of a claw. He watched its tongue flick out and curl past its sharpened fangs and he widened his eyes, surprised by the blood tainting its teeth. Peter raised his knife, holding his hand still, refraining from letting it quake. He could not show weakness; he had to make himself bigger, scarier. He had to frighten the Bear back down to a Cub.

Ted and everyone watching was taken aback by what Peter did next; Peter hadn't a clue he was doing it out of context for he only knew the dirt beneath his feet, the knife in his hand, the animal bearing its sneer down at him from where it towered above. He held out his knife and without a second of hesitation, he slashed forward, cutting the Bear across the snout, erasing its fanged sneer.

Snow's hand flew to her mouth and Charming threw an arm out to prevent Peter's next attack but Tootles wrapped his fist around David's pinky, stopping him. David looked to the young boy and Tootles gave a shake of his head, glancing to the older Boys who didn't make a move to stop Peter. Once he got Lost like this, there was no one who could bring him back out but himself.

Cubby's eyes watered at the stinging slash across his cheek and still, he didn't raise his club. It stayed limp in his hand as tears wet his cheeks and salt stung his wound. Peter glared at the Bear, standing tall, his chest puffed, his eyes glittering with madness; in seconds, as he decided the Bear was indeed a Cub, the Cub's face morphed back to that of a Boy's; fangs became teeth, fur became hair, the snout became a trembling lip and a pink nose. Peter looked to Ted, his brow furrowing, as he came forward, raising a hand, a curious finger; Ted flinched as Peter's finger neared his wound.

"What'd you do to yourself, Ted?" He asked.

Ted looked up at him, shook his head. "Cut it, out in the Forest," Ted lied.

"You ought to be more careful," Peter told him, smiling, ruffling his hair. He looked about, his eyebrow furrowing, confused at the amount of swords and arrows. "What are we all doing again?"

"You was teaching us to fight," Curly said, glancing sideways to Ted, eyes stuck to the red stripe marred upon his cheek.

"For what?" Peter asked. "What are we fighting?"

"We ... don't know," Thomas said, all the Boys sharing glances. "You know."

"I do?" Peter asked, scratching his head. "O-of course, I do. Yes, I do!" He said, looking around, seemingly aware of the adults just then. He came forward a bit to the closest set of Boys, his hand close to his mouth to hide his mutter, "Who're they?"

The Boys all stayed silent, staring at Peter as if he were downright mad. Harold pushed through them, a scrap of paper in his hand; Peter jolted upright as Harold handed him the paper. Peter glanced quizzically to Harold then the paper, reading what it said. Peter's eyes narrowed, the lightness of his eyes dashed, burnt out; he looked back up and let the paper fall from his hand. "Right. War. Back to training, all of you."

The Boys, accustomed to Peter's dreaming, nodded; the adults and Henry however looked at Peter in what he could only figure as distrust. Peter matched their gazes, raising an eyebrow. "You're not fighting very well if you're standing about, staring," He snapped, before commanding, "Everyone, find a partner; time is of the essence."

...

_"If you're going to learn," Benny snapped, "it's got to feel real."_

_Peter nodded, looking at his brother through his bangs; he blew them out of his face with a single puff of air, turning his distracted gaze back to his brother's set one. Peter held his wooden sword ready but Benny shook his head, taking it from him. Benny turned his back, grabbing a real one; a metal sword of glittering steel with a heavy handle. _

_He thrust the handle to Peter's hand and stared with eyes that couldn't see the youth in Peter's stature nor the small fingers that tried to grip the wide handle, which he had to do with both hands; even so, the tip hit the floor and Peter's small muscles strained. Peter looked up at his brother with terrified eyes, "Wait, Benny, I'm not ready yet - "_

_" - Are they going to wait for you to lift a sword?" Benny asked, his blade gleaming with a stripe of firelight. "Are they going to tempt their own Fate, Peter? No. They're going to stick you, gut you, and before they kill you, they'll humiliate you. War isn't a game, Peter, no matter how much you want to pretend it is."_

_Peter's eyes shot between his sword and his brother's; Benny proceeded in moving forward, crossing the room, his swordarm out, elbow bent. Peter struggled frantically to pull the sword up, eyes wide, reflecting the dancing firelight coming off the sword blade._

_"Come on, Peter," Benny snarled. "Pick. Up. Your. Sword."_

_"It's too heavy," Peter said, his birdlike bones creaking under the strain. "I can't - "_

_"You can," Benny spat. "Do it or I'll make you."_

_Peter shook his head, his muscles feeling ready to tear; Benny shut his eyes, popped his jaw, ground his teeth. Then he reopened them so they kindled red and he shot forward, his sword going for his brother's vulnerability._

_Peter's eyes shot wide and let go of the sword, let it clank; he threw his arms up, wanting to fend the sword back, his eyes ready to close, to embrace the pain, when he saw, out of the corner of his eye, a glitter coming from a leather bag hanging from a peg._

_Peter took off after it, surprising his brother and causing Benny to slow; by the time Benny'd understood what Peter was doing, Peter had taken the dagger from his father's sea-stained bag and held it out. Benny threw out his sword and Peter met him, the metals clashing hard and loud; Peter's bare toes splayed out to better his traction, Benny's boots crinkling as the soles slipped over the floor._

_Benny furrowed his brow, throwing his weight into the sword; Peter, beneath him, winced for a moment, his spine bending, tiny bird bones on the verge of snapping. Peter merely glared up at his brother and his unfair advantage, pushing hard against Benny; both hands on his knife now, one upon the handle, another along the blade._

_"Your bad form's showing," Peter managed, a grunt of exertion leaving his lips._

_Benny's eyes seemed to flash red and he glared down at his brother, pushing harder until Peter's foot slipped, slid; Peter hit the floor, on his back, and Benny let the tip of his blade hold up Peter's chin, so he could see his brother's eyes. "This isn't bad form, Peter; there's worser things out in the real world, the adult world. You haven't seen anything yet."_

...

The Devil was bored; he had no reason to be fore his plan was in action, or so he led himself to believe. He'd expected his brother to come right away for the Girls, until he recalled Peter's memory problem; if there wasn't one thing, there was another with his idiot little brother.

He'd tried to see what he could get out of the Girls; from what Benedict figured, they knew close to nothing about anything that was going on currently. It shouldn't have surprised him, but he was disappointed both in himself and his choice in captives; of course they knew nothing. He'd had Wendy locked in a cage for so long that she had no understanding of what was going on around her; she still thought her brothers were young and that Peter loved her.

The only one who could've helped Benedict was Tiger Lily and she hated him with a passion of a thousand fiery suns. He tried to speak to her, to get information, but she didn't even speak English; though the action of her spitting at his feet expressed more disrespect towards him than words ever could. He wasn't one to let dishonour go unchecked, but he promised himself he wouldn't hurt them anymore than what they had already suffered.

Even so, The Devil wasn't overly keen with his making deals with himself; if he knew anything, it was that every deal, every promise, came with a price - the price to play.

At least he had plenty of pawns to gamble with.

...

Peter was the only one without a partner; being the General, he assumed he didn't need one fore he was much too busy supervising to contribute to the war effort. Alas, overlooking the Boys and adults seemed to bother him immensily; he watched Thomas show Henry different stances and jabs with several swords and daggers he'd found lying around Peter's piles of Lost things.

The only thing Peter could hear over the clamour of voices, nearly as sharp-edged as the swords they hit and jabbed, were Thomas' words: "See, you jump forward like this, cut down like this; yeah, like that! Have you used a sword before? Okay, watch this; sidestep, jab, block, cut. Good!"

Peter's teeth found the inside of his cheek and he bit down, his focus not the Boys wielding weapons around him, but the only Boy there that really mattered to him. He forced his feet to move as he crossed the room, absentmindedly walking and nodding to his Boys' work; Peter eventually neared Henry and Thomas and was about to ask to cut in, when Neal held an arm out, stopping him.

"Hey," He said, eyes clouded but fierce. "Can I talk to you for a second ... Peter?"

Peter raised an eyebrow but shrugged, making a show to seem indifferent. Neal took him to the side of the hut, cutting a glance to his family and the Boys. "About Wendy ... "

Peter narrowed his eyes, his eyebrow furrowing. "Is that what this is about? The girl?"

Neal nodded, his eyes still gleaming with an unnerving fierceness that Peter remembered seeing in Rumple, in Henry. "When you came and brought me here, you were trying to take Wendy here."

Peter's eyebrows dipped. "I don't recall doing such a thing."

"You did," Neal said quickly. "I want to know why she's here again."

Peter's eyebrows jolted and he looked affronted. "How am I supposed to know? People just wind up here, Baelfire. They get Lost and they're taken to Neverland; if she got Lost and she found this place then it isn't my fault. I don't remember hearing of her before."

"She knows you," Neal said, more forcefully. "She told me about you; she said she'd met you before and she'd been to Neverland. She said you let her go."

Peter blinked, his eyes growing distant. "Let her go?" He echoed, his voice small.

"Let her go," Neal repeated softly, looking to his face. It looked nothing like the malicious face of the demon Hook had always told stories of; he looked nothing more than a broken little Lost Boy just then.

Peter shook his head, the fog of his eyes evanescencing; he looked to Neal's face, his adult face, and for a moment he could see the Boy behind the shutters of his eyes. A scared little Lost Boy, just like him.

A Lost Boy who was about to lose his Love.

Peter licked his lips, nodding, looking to his feet. "I remember. I think."

...

_"Peter," Wendy called, coming up beside him; she'd been there only a few days, it seemed, but with Neverland's frozen clockwork, she had been there much longer. She sided beside Peter and he turned at the sound of his name, the one thing he could always remember without flaw; she smiled and held a dead squirrel by its tail out to Peter, a peace offering._

_Peter laughed and took it, acknoweledging the gorged eye socket from which she'd struck the squrriel dead. He nodded, looking to her with eyes of sparkling electricity; "A clean shot yet again, Wendy! Wonderful!"_

_Wendy bloomed with pride, grinning; she courtesied, laughing. "Why, thank you, Peter!" Wendy lifted her head, meeting Peter's gaze. Peter grinned, looping his elbow with hers; he then began to run with her, grabbing her by the wrists for the two to twirl. The two went laughing before Peter stopped, holding the dead squrriel by the tail, asking, "Could you kill more of these this way?"_

_Wendy titled her head, crossed her arms; Peter only just realised her red hands. He laughed at them, eyes glittering with hope, grin wide; she acted as if she were mulling the thought on her tongue. "You know, I would love to," Wendy said, smiling, and Peter let out a crow of victory, his own bloody hands finding her waist to lift her above him and to twirl her._

_Wendy and Peter's laughter was cut short by the snap of a branch and Peter whirled, his red hands leaving her stained skirt; he pulled out his dagger and looked high and wide, eyes darting, his other arm out to keep Wendy behind him._

_"Darling," A woman's voice echoed from high above him. "Wake up, dear."_

_Peter's eyes widened and he shook his head, yelling at the voice, "No! We just started! You can't take her now!" Peter whirled around, seeing Wendy was gone; he screamed in outrage, aiming his dagger to the sky. "You can't take her from me! _Wendy_! Come back!"_

_She didn't, fore it was morning was she was. Peter glared at the sky, finding his usual seat upon the rock in the center of a clearing; he held his chin up with his red hands, sighing. He would just have to wait for Wendy to return for the two to have anymore fun, as he always did._

...

Peter was back to Generaling; he was doing a poor job fore he was distracted and eventually, he crossed the room to Thomas and Henry, irritated. "Mind if I cut in?" He asked, looking to Thomas. Thomas shrugged, noticing Peter's testing tone; he stepped aside and gave Henry a reassuring nod before going off to watch the Twins gang up on Fabian (which was not an unusual occurance, mind, so Peter wasn't bothered a hair.)

Henry glanced to Peter's face, a his lips turning up in a small smile. Peter returned it, looking to the sword in Henry's hand; "Would you rather I taught you to fight with a sword or with your magic?" He asked, his voice far softer than it had been with Thomas.

Henry's tongue flicked, licked his lips nervously. He smiled, saying, "Well, I can use all the help I can get with magic, so ... "

"Alright then," Peter said, his hand finding Henry's wrist; he moved so he was behind Henry, the older boy's legs positioned in line beside his. "You already know how to change a stick to a sword; how about we try something a little different this time?" He asked, his lips close to Henry's ear, enough for them to brush. "Watch."

Peter placed his fingers upon Henry's, over the sword handle. "Think of something," Peter told Henry, "anything you want it to turn into."

"I can't think of anything," Henry said after a long moment of Peter's breath on his ear, his fingers warm over his.

"Fine, I'll do the thinking for you," He said, "long as you do the believing, alright? Fair deal?"

Henry nodded and Peter's eyes fluttered closed. He thought of a creature, something as wild as him, yet something just as dangerous; something uncontained, venomous, something that worked of stealth.

Henry's eyes closed, too; he let out a deep breath, repeating in his head everything Peter had told him about belief. _If you believe, anything is possible. _If Henry believed, how hard was it for the two to intwine their magic like they had their fingers that night under the stars?

The cool leather of the sword handle grew long, thinner, muscular; underneath Henry's fingers, the material of the leather shifted into ridges of leather, of thick skin. What was in his hand was no sword; it writhed under his fingers and when Peter opened his eyes, he let out a laugh. Henry opened his eyes, one eye at a time, and leapt back into Peter, dropping the spitting snake from his hands; Peter grinned, catching Henry from falling backward. Peter looked down at Henry's face, grinning, arching his eyebrow, but then Peter's eyes grew fogged as he heard the Boys and adults shout aloud from the snake. Peter looked back to what was happening before him and he scooped Henry back upright, pulling his pipes from his side; he shouted, running to the center of the room, for his Boys to cover their ears, before he blasted a tune.

The Boys were quick to cover their ears, Snow covering Tootles'; Peter blew notes into his pipes, his feet before the viper that raised its head at the sound. Henry watched, his hands limp at his sides; Emma moved slowly as to not alter the viper's attention to her as she made her way to Henry. She placed a reassuring hand to his shoulder as Peter blew several long-drawn notes, causing the viper's head to swivel slowly from side-to-side. Peter then decided to have a little fun; he blew three short notes, causing the snake to jump back three times. Peter grinned from over his pipes, whistling past them; the snake hissed, writhing.

Snow placed a hand over Tootles' eyes as Peter blew a sharp note; the snake shrieked, fangs bared, as its tail began to molt and its scales began to break off. Soon enough, the snake was rolling over the dirt floor before its tail lit aflame with a sharp two-note from Peter. The snake then was lit alight from the tip of its tail to the tip of its forked tongue; it turned to ash and Peter stomped a boot through it, laughing, taking his pipes from his lips to hold his arms out in a grand flourish. The Boys took their hands from their ears, clapping and wooting; Peter turned to them, grinning. "That was fun, wasn't it, Boys?" He called, still laughing. He turned to the adults, confused as to why they did not think his slewing of the snake was as wonderful as he did; they merely looked to him, slightly disturbed.

Peter looked back down at the ash beneath his boot and shrugged, kicking it up into the air. He didn't need the adults approval, surely not; they didn't understand his games, how could they? They didn't understand him and his Boys' fun because they thought they were foolish and dangerous.

Peter happened to think the danger made it all the more _exhilarating._

...

_"Wendy," Her mother asked, holding out her daughter's dress, staring at the red stains upon her waist and the folds of her skirt. "What have you been doing?"_

_"Oh!" Wendy said, laughing. "I was playing with Peter Pan and my dress got a little dirty, I didn't think you'd mind - "_

_" - Peter Pan?" Her mother asked, going back to fretting over the dress. "Oh, Wendy, darling - "_

_" - Yes, Mother?" Wendy asked, eyes wide and doelike, her hand clasped behind her back. She bowed her head slightly, awaiting a scolding._

_"You tell Peter Pan you can't get your dresses dirty anymore," Her Mother said, looking more intently to the splotches that looked far too much like handprints to be of comfort. "Is this red dye, Wend - "_

_Wendy rushed in and hugged her mother from around the waist. Her mother's gasped, laughing. "Wendy, what is it, dear?"_

_"Thank you," She said, hugging her mother tightly. She pulled away, her mother's hands on her daughter's arms, no longer worrying over the ruined dress._

_"For what, dear?"_

_"Oh, nothing, Mother," She said, smiling. Her eyes widened and she looked around quickly. "Where're John and Michael? I have a new story to tell them!"_

_"They're playing in the nursery," Her mother said, smiling, watching as her daughter let go of her waist and rushed away, showing her mother the pads of her dirty barefeet as she raced to the nursery._

_"Wendy! Wait!" Her mother called and Wendy stopped, placing a hand on the doorframe._

_"Yes, Mother?"_

_"I love you; you know that, don't you?" She asked, seeing herself in her daughter's bright eyes, in her curled blonde ringlets, the kiss at the edge of her mouth._

_The kiss at the corner of Wendy's lips grew more pronounced as she smiled, nodding. "Yes, Mother, of course I do. You tell me plenty of times."_

_Wendy's mother looked Lost for words. She pursed her lips, her own kiss practically disappearing. "I can never tell you it enough to show you how much I _do _love you, Wendy."_

_Wendy nodded, though she didn't think of her mother at the words; she thought of Peter, back in Neverland, awaiting her next story, her next downed squrriel, her next red imprint of hands to mark him as Hers. She nodded, absently. "I love you, too, Mother."_

_Her mother watched her go, a string of words trapped down in her throat; if her daughter was anything like her, she was a Believer._

_That was enough to terrify the little Lost Girl awake in her eyes._

...

The Devil wasn't one to have his motives questioned but his were just then. The Demons around him watched him, unsure; Wendy and Tiger Lily shared a look of similar curtness at his words. "All of you surround her Tree; but do _not _capture her. She won't be any help to us that way. This is just a warning, a precaution. Let her go and run and find Peter for me; then we'll have more game pieces to shove off the board."

The Demons looked to their Devil, heeding his orders though they trusted not a word that flicked from his silver tongue. Many of his Demons were sporting slashed ankles and gouged holes in their chests; even so, he'd sent all of them out here for what they were to do just then. To say they were a little peeved of having to limp their way to the Tree just to let their objective _escape _was an understatement.

Felix wished to shout to her but Benedict prevented it, holding Felix's voice down with his own. "Don't let her take any of that blasted Dust," He commanded, his voice a razor-edge, "we'll need it."

The Demons began to climb the ladder, several wrapping their fingers around branches; then, Benedict turned to Wendy, smiling crookedly. "Would you mind, Darling? It's only a pretend, it won't do any harm."

Wendy Darling had to be one of the best Pretenders, one of Peter's favourites; she wasn't about to sell herself short, Peter would never allow that, he'd call her a traitor if she betrayed her own talents. And so, she pretended and she pretended well; she screamed and she struggled against the Demon holding her still, though in all honesty, it wasn't that hard to pretend that she wanted as far away from there as was possible.

That was why she was one of the very best Pretenders, Wendy; many of her pretends she believed into existence. That was why the scream so unfamiliar to Tinkerbell's ears struck her to the core; she'd heard it before, surely, it must have rung a bell fore she was unsettled, only accustomed to the voice's ringing laughter that hadn't met her ears since her capture.

Tink leapt from her fishnet cot, a hand grabbing a shell dagger that she held tightly in her fist as she neared the open window of her tree house; she glanced out the window, keeping her face back in the shadows. She looked down and saw them - the two girls, the one who'd screamed, in a blue gown and another in a dress of hide; the rest around them were shapes darker than the black of night, prowling, hunting. Tink's breath caught in her throat, sensing a presence behind her; even without her Wings, she still had a built-in magicial sonar.

The sonar was going mad.

Tinkerbell turned slowly, silently, lifting her eyes to the hooded figure in front of her. He took a step forward, his nose visible in the light. Tink titled her head, confused; Felix wasn't magical by any means - yet here he was, radiating a power she couldn't quite put her finger on. "Felix?" She asked, lowering her shell. "What is it?"

The Fox looked to the Fairy, a sneer upon his muzzle; his teeth, long and menacing, were highlighted by the light that fitlered from the canopy to Tink's lone window. "If it's something with Pan, I don't want to - "

"It _is _about Pan," The Fox said in a voice darker than his own; the voice of one slyer than his appearances entailed, the voice of one who ripped out throats to survive. "When is it not? I'm merely in need of your services, Tink, no more, no less."

Tinkerbell furrowed her brow, her mouth opening slightly in reply but Felix cut in, continuing, "I need you to deliver Pan a message for me, alright?"

Tinkerbell awaited Felix's next words, but she did not entirely expect him to come forward so quick, to get so close; he placed a hand over the shell in her fist, undoing her fingers from it, as he whispered, close to her ear, "Tell him I've come to retake what's rightfully mine."

Tinkerbell's lip twitched, her eyes darting from Felix to the window, the two girls outside, one of them still shrieking. "What about them?" She asked, concern stitched in her voice.

"Oh, no harm'll come to them," The Devil in Disguise laughed at the Fairy's worry of the girls' well-being. "Peter would simply not allow it, would he?"

...

_"Peter! Where are you, Peter?" Wendy looked around with curious eyes, her dress growing caught in the dirt near her feet. She grabbed fistfulls of the fabric and pulled the skirt up, revealing her bare dirty feet. She swiveled her head, trying to look everywhere, to see everything to better remember when she was back in the comfort of her bed, her home, the nursery; she looked to the trees, to the skeleton leaves, the dirt at her feet._

_Then she heard it, the song; Peter's pipes._

_Wendy smiled widely, running over the cool dirt until she began to familarise herself with the Forest she so often gotLost in; finally, she was sure she'd find him, she ran into the clearing of where the house Peter and the Boys had built for her stood, and her voice rippled as she called out, "Peter - "_

_Peter aburptly sat up, his pipes falling from his lips; he smiled, though his smile seemed distant, and he asked, "You can still hear it, then?"_

_Wendy titled her head, her blonde curls cascading past her shoulders, down her back. Her hair was longer, Peter noticed, her face rounder; she had a woman's chin, didn't she, or was that his imagination playing more hurtful tricks on him? "Of course, I can hear it still; why would I not?"_

_Peter shook his head slightly, his eyes to the pipes in his hands. "You hadn't come back in a while," Peter said, his eyes to the pipes, not to the girl before him who had so easily grown in the time they'd been apart. "I thought you'd forgotten of me already."_

_I was afraid, Peter thought, but didn't say; I was afraid you weren't coming back._

_Wendy walked forward, her hands letting her raised skirt fall to brush her ankles; her dress was growing short. Peter's eyes caught the movement and he looked to her toes, digging indentions in the dirt; he raised his eyes, from the skirt to the girl. She placed a hand on his arm and he refrained from pulling away, pushing himself from the look in her Lost Girl eyes; the look of a Mother. "Peter, I would never think of forgetting you."_

_Peter shrugged, wishing to get away from the subject. "How long can you stay?"_

_"Until Mother comes to wake me," Wendy said, "when it's light back home. Why?"_

_"I would like to show you something," Peter said, pushing himself from the rock he'd sat at for days straight. He then grabbed her hand and began to run, pulling her behind him. She laughed, following him in pursuit; "What is it, then, Peter?"_

_"A Spring," Peter said, turning to her, a smile at his lips. "A way for you to stay."_

_Wendy stopped, her bare feet slowing; despite this, Peter was still running, dragging Wendy along. Wendy dug her soles into the dirt, using both hands to wrap around Peter's hand. "Wait, Peter, wait! A way ... to stay?"_

_"Yes," Peter said, stopping aburptly; she hit his chest and fell on her back at the quickness of it all. "A way for you to stay here with me. That's what you want, isn't it? A way for you not to have to forget me; you'd never have to leave!"_

_Wendy looked to Peter's face and he recognised those eyes, wanted them gone from his Wendy's face. Peter's brow twitched as he asked, "Why are you not saying anything? What is it you're thinking, Wendy?"_

_Wendy sighed, her eyes growing fogged; she looked down to her hands, still upon Peter's wrist. He looked to his hand, too, trying to catch her expression, trying to read it. "I," Wendy started, " ... What would Mother think?"_

_Peter stared at Wendy, a fierceness in his eyes, a selfishness. "It doesn't matter what your Mother thinks, Wendy; it matters what you think." He came closer, placing his other hand atop Wendy's both; he placed his mouth to her ear, whispering through her blonde hair which tickled her neck, "What is _you _want, Wendy? What is I can give you to make you stay with me?"_

_There was nothing that could make Wendy stay, Wendy knew; when the sun rose in London, so would she, and she would have to visit Peter again. Peter didn't know this; he honestly believed he could convince her to stay, to not heed her Mother's call, to come with him and stay forever young as he._

_Not even Peter's lies could prevent her leave and he was soon left alone again in Neverland, left alone in himself; even the few who had chosen to live in Neverland alongside him refused to come from their hiding places to see him. All except the Lost Boys - his true family, his only family, it seemed. The only family that mattered._

...

Tinkerbell was allowed to run, which was definitely suspicious; looking back over her shoulder, she knew the hooded Boys that had come with Felix were ravaging her hideaway, the one she'd been secluded to since the other Fairies kicked her from the Tree. Anger sparked in Tink's heart; she knew she couldn't go back and pick a fight with all those Boys but she definitely would do so to Peter when she got close enough.

She thought back to the conversation she'd had with Felix; it was unlike Peter's second-in command to sound so bitter towards him. With the wind pushing against her face as she ran, the words from Felix's lips whistled past her ears: _Tell him I've come to take what's rightfully mine._ The words rung in Tinkerbell's head and she thought back to when Peter hadn't been this creature shaped by Neverland's hands, born by the Fairies' Curse; when his eyes hadn't been full of the stars inlaid in the sky, when his skin hadn't been marred by the Wars of several decades, when his pure heart had been gold instead of charred Dark.

Even for her, it was hard to recall; it was even harder for Peter when all he knew was now; Tinkerbell knew for certain, however, even with her muddled thoughts, her fractured memories, that Peter had always been the heir to Neverland fore Neverland chooses its own, allows its own to live, to survive, to believe.

Peter had always been a Believer, a Pretender, a Dreamer; one of the best, his father had always boasted when he'd tell stories of his son's adventures with him, when they would go out into the Wood to defeat the dragons and scour for the sprites and practice with their swords, sail into the great unknown in search of mermaids and sea serpents and giant squids.

That was why Neverland had chosen him; because if there was anyone in the world that could _be _Neverland, personified, it was the wild-eyed Lost Boy that was Peter Pan. Even so, just Peter wasn't enough, not with his Dark heart; he needed his Belief again, his Love again. That was the only thing that could possibly save Neverland, the link of them to Peter; it was only a matter of time before Death overtook the island, dragging Peter down with Him.

Peter wouldn't go down easy, mind; even in Death, all Pans found a way.

* * *

**There was a ton of Darling Pan fluff in Peter's past, so I really hope you guys are okay with that. I have to explain how their relationship effected the two since Wendy did (and still does) love Peter. I was really mad about how they portrayed her and decided to make them more fun and innocent; in the original novel, Wendy's mother shares thoughts alongside her daughter about Peter and may have met him, along with her husband, George, who recalled Peter near the end. Some of this context stuff I do where I go super in-depth may not make sense if you haven't read the books/seen some of the films, so hopefully I can give you guys a list of Peter-related things if you'd like that? I don't know, or I can explain it here in my lengthy af Author's Notes.**

**(The red hands were a hint at Wendy's being Red-Handed Jill; _Peter Pan, (2003) film)_**

**In my version (and the original), Tinkerbell and Peter are friends; though Tink's distanced herself, blaming Peter for something in the past that I shall not say.**

**Tinkerbell was on this morning which was wonderful, you guys. I also got a ton of Peter Pan merch and now own the hardcover, a beanie with his feather, _Hook_, and _Peter Pan (2003)_! So my break and New Year'll consist of tears and feelings _and did I mention there's going to be a-fucking-nother Peter Pan movie called _Pan_ because it comes out next year_**

**_and that is in three days. Next year is in three days. THREE DAAAYS._**

**So, without further ado, have a wondrous and safe New Year!**


	14. Calm in the Storm

**Chapter Fourteen: Calm in the Storm**

_"Take care lest an adventure is now offered you, which, if accepted, will plunge you in deepest woe." - Peter Pan_

Peter was very nearly twelve when his Father left in search of his grandest adventure yet, one he'd retold enough times by the jovial leaping of the orange hearth that it was engraved in Peter's head; he was to look for the Fountain of Youth.

The whereabouts of the Fountain were unknown, even to the Captain, though he acted, pretended, so well that his entire crew believed that he knew exactly where to sail, that he knew every wind current on the way, no matter how sharp, and that he knew exactly what he was sailing his ship and his crew into. If only he'd known what he would Lose in this voyage; alas, his Dream was to go on an adventure, and an adventure he shall go on fore if he had not, there would be no story nor any such Boy as Peter Pan.

Captain Pan was sure the Fountain had to be on a collection of islands; they'd tried to search Mainlands before and come up empty-handed. Though, Pan'd heard of those whom had gone to islands; many never made it back. That made his heart's beat turn rapid, not out of fear, but out of wonder; he lived for it, surely, adventure and he couldn't believe he'd been appointed to something so high a task of looking for a legend!

The Captain wasn't aware that all the other Captains and the Crown had set him to this task because of its impossibility. They highly expected him to fail - hell, that was the point; they'd all grown tired of Pan's saying of "Pan never fails" and had decided, in secret, they would see what good a Captain he really was, make him eat his words. No sane Captain was to send him and his crew after a fleeting impossibility and a legend; and yet, Pan had accepted rather cheerily and had even told them, just to make it more impossible, that he would be back in a month to prove to them that he had indeed found the Fountain.

He should've considered his family; his eldest son was fourteen, his youngest twelve in a month (as he reminded his Father constantly). He should've thought of his wife, kissed her twice, twirled her upon the stairwell one last time before he'd set off, should've heeded her "Do be careful, sweet" instead of brushing it away with a jovial laugh, to which he'd grabbed her waist and asked in her neck whom he was. "Pan," She'd laughed, rolled her eyes. "My John Pan; my reckless, adventure-craving, sea-stained John Pan."

"The one and only," He'd said, laughing, before kissing his wife and saying he'd love her always and he'd be back soon. Then he'd turned to his sons, Peter first; Peter was always first and always last to John and he meant no offence to his eldest son, he just knew, deep in his heart, that Peter was meant for greatness as he fore Peter was a Pretender, a Dreamer, and John's Dreams were coming true and if he could make the impossible possible, so could Peter.

"You're really going, then?" Peter asked, conflicted; he was excited for his Father's adventure but he hated that he had to leave, and so close to his birthday, too.

"Yes," John said, kneeling down on his knee so he could look to his son's eye, "I'll be back, though, before your birthday; I'll have a right fine gift for you by then. And a story."

Peter's eyes widened and his mouth fell agape. "Oh! A story! What of?"

"My adventures," John breathed, a smile on his lips. He glanced to Peter's older brother, his eldest son, whom's lips had grown tight at the mention of his Father's stories. John moved to hold Peter's hands, and rubbed his calloused thumbs over Peter's soft youthful fingers, as he whispered so only Peter could hear, "While I'm gone, Peter, I want you to make me a promise."

Peter raised an eyebrow, much like his Mother would do when John said something especially questionable. "What sort of promise?" He asked.

"A pinky promise," John said, taking a hand back to hold his pinky out, erect. Peter readied his pinky as well but his Father laughed. "I haven't even said what it was we were promising over!"

Peter shrugged his shoulders, smiling. "I don't need to know," He said, trying to lope his pinky around his Father's, who held his back, laughing along with Peter.

"Oh course you need to know," John said. "Listen to me now," Peter ceased his laughing as his Father inclined forward to tell him. Peter made a show of inclining his ear to his Father, awaiting his promise Peter had to keep. John whispered it, so that neither Peter's Mother nor Benny could hear: "Promise me you won't grow up while I'm away."

Peter might've been young but he wasn't foolish. "That's impossible," He said, taking his ear back, his pinky not standing as tall.

"Only if you believe it is, Peter," John said, holding his pinky out so that it stood more prominently. Peter uneasily loped his pinky around his Father's until they entwined; meeting his Father's eyes, Peter nodded, trying to seem confident, even a little bit, enough to convince his Father that he wouldn't fail, couldn't fail.

John stood, ruffled Peter's hair, their pinkies falling apart; John turned to his eldest son, Benny, already tall as him, with shoulders he tried to broaden by straightening and a chin he tried to lift to seem older, more capeable than he was.

Benny was older, more mature, than Peter. He knew far too much and knowledge, it killed one's innocence. John looked to his eldest son, already so much like him, and he placed a hand on his shoulder, not bothering to kneel as he had to Peter; it wasn't because of Peter's height, either, fore Peter was maybe an inch or two shorter than Benny. With his hand on Benny's shoulder, John began to speak, though there was no time for small talk, not now. "Benny, do you remember our promise we made? On the rigging?"

Peter, whom was listening closely, his Mother's hand on his shoulder forbidding him from physically bettering his placement to hear them, furrowed his brow at the rigging bit. His Father had taken Benny to the rigging to talk and hadn't thought to let Peter come, when Peter had always dreamt of sitting on the rigging with his Father, dangling his feet over the edge? How was that fair?

Benny nodded, his eyes looking to his Father's right hand, and he nodded again, more forcefully. "Yes," He said, but looked quickly to his Father's face, "but I - "

" - Can," John said, meeting his son's eyes. "You _can_, Benny."

Benny nodded, his Father lifting his hand, turning, turning his back on them, on his family and Benny rushed forward, on impulse, crashing into his Father, grappling for a hug, for anything, because out of every feeling coursing through Benny, the most promienent, the one that screamed within him, was fear. Fear of being forgotten.

He'd always heard of it, men at sea forgetting their families, their faces, their addresses, and Benny didn't want that to happen, he didn't want to forever be known as the Man of the Pan household. Being the older of the two, the more mature, the less vieled, Benny said, cried, choked, to his Father the last words he'd ever hear from his family; the desperation, the fear, the realisation of "I just want you to come back home. To us."

Captain Pan was of the jolly sort, the sort that joked to the Devil when they were dealing, smirked while he was gambling, laughed while he dying; so when he was given his family's concern in boxes of flamboyant colours and curled ribbon, he took them and daintly pulled away their wrapping with a quirk of his lip and a pull of his fingers, waiting until the ticktick_tock _grew louder and louder to which he would hold it up to his ear, give it a shake, his eyes twinkling, the exclaimination of _Why, I wonder what it could be!_ leaving his lips just before it burst in his hands.

When Benny said this, Pan didn't know how to react but to laugh, to ease the tension of his leave because it was obvious that this goodbye would be their last. They could all feel it, surely, fore Peter moved to hold his Mother's hand and his Mother placed a hand on her eldest son's sloping shoulder as they walked their Father, their Husband, their Captain to port and they held each other, held their family together, with frayed threads that were hands and tears that were the glue.

It was the day before Peter's birthday when the messenger came and gave a thundering knock upon the Pan's household. Peter was the one to answer, thinking it would be his Mother's family come to visit; when he pulled the door open, took in the young man before him, his profile highlighted by the setting sun, and the man asked, in a breathless, mournful tone _"Can I speak to the Man and Lady of the household, son?" _Peter knew. His gaze fell to the man's shoes, to the shadow pooled beneath his feet, and Peter's hand left the doorframe as his Mother moved forward, a hand finding Peter's shoulder. _"Yes?"_

_"You're Mrs. Pan?"_

Peter's Mother held her head high, nodding, her hair bouncing with the movement. She looked the man in the eyes, held his gaze, matched it. _"Yes, I am. Is there something you - "_

The man pulled his hat away from his head, placed it over his heart, his eyes bloodshot and melancholy, far too sad for his age, his youth. _"I'm afraid I have some bad news. Could I - "_ He indicated with his hat to come in.

Peter's Mother pulled him aside with her, her nails biting into his shoulder. Benny rounded the bend of the living area to the main entrance and he started, blinking, staring at the man with his melancholy eyes and his panicked Mother and his little brother. _"Who are you?" _Benny'd asked harshly in a voice cut of steel.

_"My name is David Jones," _The man had said, wringing his hands around the rim of his hat. _"I own the pub _Vanderdecken _along the coast of the Western Cape. I was sent to deliver a message," _His eyes cut to Peter and he said quickly, _"about Captain Pan and his whereabouts. Well, his _last _known whereabouts, more like."_

Peter's Mother and Benny shared a sharp look and they allowed David Jones in, walked with him to the dining area in pin-drop silence. Peter swore he could hear his Mother's heart, could feel her rapid pulse from her hand in his. Benny opened the door, let David Jones slip in. Peter's Mother walked in next, giving her son's hand a squeeze. Peter went to go in, too, but Benny stepped into his way. Peter glanced to him, trying to see past his body to his Mother. _"Benny, let me through."_

_"I'm sorry, Peter, but I'm afraid this conversation is meant for ... Grown-ups."_

_"Benny, please, I want to know - "_

_"No, Peter. Stay out here. Go play or something, alright?"_

The door closed, locked, and Peter stared at it, affronted. Why wouldn't they let him listen? He wanted to know about Father, too! It was his birthday tomorrow, if anything, he should know of Father's story first.

Peter glared at the door, placed his ear to it, tried to hear. There were whispers, the screech of wood of the chairs against the floor, and a clear of a throat. The words were still whispers and Peter couldn't catch any of them, not over the thrumming of his heart in his throat. There was an exclaim then, a choked sob; _"Missing?!"_

_"No, not missing," _Peter managed to catch from the man by the name of David Jones. _"Lost."_

Peter could hear no more of the conversation fore his eyes were unseeing, his arms tingling numb, his heart thumpthump_thumping _with a fire, and Peter backed away from the door, not understanding, not comprehending, but he knew and the knowledge surged within him, roared and raged until it _screamed _out of him, ripped up his throat until his voice was hoarse and the house was hit with a torrent of rain, of hail, of pain, of emotion, and Peter fell too his knees before the closed door, screaming and sobbing; he held his face in his hands as his shoulders shook and the house was swallowed by the storm just as the storm within Peter consumed him whole.

A hand touched Peter's shoulder and Peter froze, tremebling, and looked to the hand; it was Dark and black as night with fingers long and terrifying like serpents. Peter's eyes trailed from its fingers to the shadow's face, confused, and the shadow looked to his with blank eyes, a Shade of whatever it had been before. Peter's eyes then moved to his feet where the shadow and him stayed connected; looking back to the Shadow's face, Peter recognised it and the Shadow recognised him. Peter placed a tenative hand over the Shadow's fingers, held it there as bolts of lightnining emblazoned the hallway, as thunder roared and howled outside.

The knob of the door turned after a click and David Jones walked out, his lips parting, eyes widening as he watched the boy's shadow fly behind him, cower. He blinked, shook his head, rubbed a pale hand over his face. He mumbled, whispered, _"I'm seeing ghosts now ... What's next, a bloody ghost ship?!"_ before walking past Peter, who watched him leave the house, his shadow at his back, its grip slowly fading until there was nothing holding him down any longer, until he could stand on buckling knees, peek around the corner to where his Mother's cries met his ears, where her bent form met his eyes; he watched his brother leave his Mother's side, his hand meant for comfort moving to pick up one of his Father's wine bottles to which he threw to the ground where it shattered, glass shining in a puddle of red wine Peter could only think of as blood. Peter watched his brother move to other forms of destruction; he picked up a chair, threw it at a wall until it broke into shards of wood; moved to his Mother's plates, shoving a rack of them to the floor; then he picked up his Father's Book of Stories and his gleaming eyes cut to the hearth.

Peter ran at his brother, raked his nails down his arms like claws until blood slickened Benny's arm and Peter fought Benny like something wild, something demonic, and Peter screamed, shrieked, _snarled_, as he fought his brother, fought him hard, and all was in vain fore Benny was not capable of sense, of _listening_, because he couldn't hear, not at all, not over the screaming of the storm around him, not over the aching of his heart, not over the broken promises filtering through his ears, and _especially _not over the _pain _that cried out, roared, seethed, _writhed_, within him, that whispered to him to let the Book fly, to let it leave his fingers, to let it crash into the coals of the hearth, to the greedy tongues of flame that leapt for the pages, for the stories, for the memories.

Benny snapped out of it, seeing his brother fall to his knees near the fire, see him frantically reach into the flames, one hand moving for the poker before abandoning the idea completely, both hands surging for the flames. Benny rushed forward, pulled Peter from the fire and Peter fought against him, screaming in his face until his voice was lost and his sobs were silent and Benny had fished the book's burnt cover and its ashy pages from the beckoning fingers of flame, left it to cool as the drops of blood wine rolled for the tarnished novel of memorises, of stories told before the shadows overtook the house as the moon went high in the sky and the stars winked and waved and the night-lights were lit for the young who were afraid, always afraid.

That was all gone now. _Lost._

Benny held Peter in his arms and he cried into his hair, cradled Peter's head and his shoulders shook; Peter sat still in his brother's embrace, allowed it, because this was the closest they'd been since his Father had left. Peter didn't cry like a little Lost Boy; he howled like a pained animal. He howled to release the pain inside of him, that ate him away, that swirled and grew until it simply _ t_ out of Peter in a cry that split the sky in two, a cry that birthed hurricanes in the seas, a cry that ran on the wind of the Never Aging and circled the head of a man presumed dead, presumed missing, presumed Lost.

...

Tinkerbell was moving swiftly, quickly, the girl's screams still clawing at her mind just as the wind hit her face, raked through her hair, curled along her chin and pinched her nose, asking, _Where is it you're going? Such a hurry, too. Don't you want to slow down, look around, play for a moment, for a second?_

Tinkerbell flicked her wrist at the thought as if it were an annoying bug buzzing in her ear; this happened every time she left her Tree. Neverland tried to talk to her, to convince her; _Tinkerbell, do come play; whatever it is you're doing can wait._

She only pushed harder, ran faster; she couldn't stop because if she did, they'd catch her and she'd be whisked away, brainwashed, turned into a perfect Fairy that couldn't _feel _besides for itself and she couldn't do that, not when the girl with her cries like screeches of a tortured Bird still rung in her ears, not when Felix's words circled her head, not when Peter didn't know, _couldn't _know.

She didn't know much either, it seemed. Actually, she was _completely _in the Dark. She only knew the message from Felix's lips but not his voice. She only knew the ground beneath her feet as she ran because that was all she'd ever done was run; without Wings, there was little else to do. She only knew Peter, protecting Peter, because Peter had no one where Tinkerbell had had the Fairies and even with the Fairies and their lovely lies of a united family, Peter still felt alone and Lost.

When he'd first spoken to Tinkerbell alone, he'd asked for a story. His age was hard to tell fore his innocence, his lack of memory, had made him a child, even lesser than one. He'd been Reborn and all children expected a story to comfort them, especially at a time like this. He was afraid and small and fragile, with only a few fragments of his Past still in his head, and those were all painful enough. He sat at the edge of the fur-blanketed bed, the bed the Fairies had built him in the Hanging Tree, his new Home, and he'd thrown his head back against the pillow, thrown the blanket from his legs and said in a childish voice, _"I can't sleep."_

_"Why is that?" _Tink had asked, standing off to the side of Peter's large room, built in the trunk of the Tree. She'd glanced anxiously to the hole in the truck that was her exit out and could see the last rays of sun leaving the tips of the tallest trees.

She hadn't really been interested. She had things to do and they most certainly hadn't involved babysitting a _kid. _Even so, despite Tinkerbell's distant thoughts, her head turned, whipped, when she heard Peter say, _"Every time I close my eyes, I ... see things. Monsters. Beasts. And they're here. On the island, with me. But, then, there are these lights and they blink on, blink, blink, blink," _Peter blinked along with his repetition of the word, _"and they chase them away, the monsters. What are they?"_

_"Stars," _Tinkerbell had said. _"They keep you safe when it's Dark."_

_"No, not stars," _Peter said, shaking his head, staring up at the ceiling. _"I know what stars are. But ... They were brighter. And they sounded ... Like bells. Like the tinkling of bells." _Peter smiled then, a carefree, blissful smile, the smile of a Boy with no troubles at all.

Tinkerbell shared her smile with Peter, glancing sideways to the trunk and the Stars winking to life above. She sighed, turned her back on the trunk, her duties, and perched on the edge of the bed, looking at Peter, who blew his bangs from his face and looked to her out of the corner of his eye. _"You're right; those aren't stars. They're fairies."_

Peter's eyes widened and he sat up straight, crossed his legs beneath him. _"Fairies!"_

_"Oh, yes," _Tinkerbell continued, _"You do believe in fairies, don't you?"_

_"Of course!" _Peter exclaimed.

_"Then I'm sure you know the story of the birth of Fairies,"_ Tinkerbell smiled, watched Peter's eyes dart to Tink as he bounced forward.

_"Tell me!"_

_"Okay, okay," _Tinkerbell laughed, glancing to the Boy amiss his blankets. _"First, tuck in."_

Peter looked to her.

_"Here, lay back," _Tinkerbell tucked Peter in, the blanket to his chin. _"Now," _she began, meeting his eager eyes, _"__When the first baby laughed for the first time, its laugh broke into a thousand pieces, and they all went skipping about, and that was the beginning of fairies."_

Peter nodded, expecting more though Tinkerbell had none to share. _"Is that it?" _He asked after a long moment.

_"Yes," _Tinkerbell said, _"that's just the beginning, though, there's much - "_

_"Where's the adventure?" _Peter asked immeaditly, ripping up from his blankets. _"Where's the gutting and the killing and the stabbing?" _Peter made a motion for each action listed, thrusting his make-believe sword (which became very real in Peter's hand.) _"When's that part? Is it soon?"_

Tinkerbell had to duck as Peter swung his sword and she watched him with wide eyes, shaking her head slightly. _"They don't really fight like that. It's too ... Mortal."_

_"What's that mean?" _Peter asked, lowering his sword, a confused expression on his face, wrinkling his nose.

_"Nothing to concern you, Peter," _she'd said, just as the Fairies had told her.

_Keep him in the Dark, _they'd said. _Don't let him know, don't let him remember._

_"Well, I've got to go," _Tinkerbell had said, looking back to the hole in the top of the trunk where the stars glittered. Tinkerbell retucked Peter in, turning to leave, to squeeze up the hole.

_"Wait," _Peter had called. Tinkerbell had turned, raised an eyebrow as Peter looked to her, his eyes slightly unsettled. _"Aren't you going to light a night-light?"_

Tinkerbell lit a pitch-torch with the last red jewels of the dying hearth. She perched it near Peter's head and he glanced to it, shook his head, and pointed to the darkest corner of his room. _"There," _He said and only replaced his head to the pillow when she'd locked the torch in place.

Tinkerbell looked to him, moving to the trunk, her exit out. _"Anything else ... ?"_

_"No, thank you," _Peter said, before raising his head just as Tinkerbell thought she could sneak away. _"What was your name again?"_

_"Tinkerbell," _She'd said over her shoulder, slinking forward. She winced when Peter spoke again, wondering when she'd ever be let to leave. _"Well, Tinkerbell, will you come back tomorrow?"_

Tinkerbell had turned and noticed Peter's raised head from the pillow. She sighed, shrugging. _"Sure. Why?"_

_"I want another story," _Peter said, yawning hugely, his eyes near closing.

_"Another story?" _Tink had asked, her shoulders slumping. The Birth of the Fairies was the only story she knew.

_"Yeah," _Peter said, slipping his hands under his chin; he opened one eye a peek. _"If you haven't got any other stories, you can make them up. If you're going to do that, though, can you make them up with swords? That makes them more exciting."_

Tinkerbell couldn't say no to Peter's innocent smile, to his peek of a look, to his already soothing breaths of near-sleep. She walked forward to Peter and pinched his nose with her fingers, brushed his bangs from his forehead. _"We'll see."_

Tinkerbell was nearing Peter's hideaway when she remembered, when she snapped out of her dreaming; she was looking for Peter to tell him of the present, the _future_, not the past. He didn't remember most of the Past than what she'd told him and she'd him far too much, hadn't she? She'd crossed a line when she'd cared, when her feelings had interfered.

She needed to think only of her task at hand; she would be no help to Peter with her mind focused on the innocent version of Peter she'd met his first day in Neverland. Neverland changed him, morphed him, moulded him; Peter was Wild now. He was reckless and hurt and confused and whatever was going on had to be the reason for his confusion.

A flicker of light flitted to her face, poked her in the cheek. It was a young man's voice, one she'd known, one she'd had to give up to keep Peter safe, one she'd had to choose between and she hadn't chosen him. Despite that, he didn't whisper honeyed lies in her ears, he whispered, _Tink. You're going to go find him, aren't you?_

Tinkerbell nodded, not bothering to swat this one. "I have to," She said, glancing to the light. She could barely see the body of the Fairy; Fairies in their Lit forms were much harder to catch. Tinkerbell couldn't do that, turn Lit, without her Wings.

He whispered to her again, _Tink ... You don't have to do anything. But, you will. I know you will. _His wings fell and he perched down on her shoulder, pulled up his knees and grabbed a fistful of her clothes to keep him upright. He turned his head and looked to her and Tinkerbell caught, for a moment, the flicker of an acorn button atop his glittering gold hair. _You're incredibly stubborn, you know that?_

Tinkerbell smiled and he could see, even then, the kiss at the corner of her mouth, the kiss not meant for him, never meant for him. "Of course I do," She said, laughing; the laugh made his knees buckle out and his hands to scramble for leverage on her leaf tunic. "Let's go find Peter."

The Fairy didn't complain, merely sighed, and held on tighter to her leaves; he hopped centimeters at every step she took and after a few moments of that and a fleeting thought of _This is the closest we've been since you were ran out_, he stood and kicked off her shoulder. _I think I'll fly now, give you a scout._

"Thanks, Terence," Tinkerbell said, smiling faintly as the light darted off into the Dark of the Forest. _Don't mention it._

Tinkerbell followed Terence's Light into the Dark; she hopped over branches, slid over rocks, and she only stopped when Terence's Light rounded on her, blinking erractically. _Tink, we're nearing the Creek. I'm not sure if the Crocidile's out, but ... Do be careful._

Tinkerbell nodded; soon enough, Terence, instead of moving off into the Dark, came in close to Tinkerbell's face and crossed his arms, unamused. _I'm serious, Tink, don't -_

Tinkerbell rolled her eyes before setting them on Terence's impish golden face and his concerned blue eyes. "I'll be careful," She said, with the air of someone who most certaintly would not.

Terence groaned, his golden Light dimming slightly as he turned, obviously not convinced; he zoomed forward into the Dark, glowing far brighter than he typically did, maybe just so Tinkerbell could see him or because he wasn't exactly _ecstatic _about going off to save the kid, no matter that he was Neverland's.

Terence did care about Peter but he cared more for himself, more for Tinkerbell; that was the thing with Fairies. They were so small, they only had room for one emotion at a time; and all Terence could feel, could think, was of Tinkerbell and her safety. With Peter Pan, Tinkerbell wasn't safe, by any means; Terence knew Tink would risk everything to keep Peter alive and well, even if he was the reason she no longer was a part of the Tinkers, no longer considered a part of the Fairy Council, let alone the Fairy Community.

He had missed her, all those decades when she'd been away, hiding out in the Wood. He wasn't so sure she had missed him, though; she'd had enough on her plate, ignoring Peter yet trying to mischef with the Fairies' plans circling him, trying to balance them out.

Tinkerbell followed him quickly, her feet sinking in the damp ground until she was beside the shore of the Creek, staring down into the silver water. She glanced around it, unsettled; the Crocidile was normally not asleep with the moon so high and she wasn't one to complain, but it unnerved her to no end. She half expected it to swallow her whole as she hopped across the Creek, feet slipping over rocks slick with - _please don't be blood, please don't be blood_; thankfully, she got across without tumbling into the Creek and Terence met her at the other end, cutting a look behind him. _I think his hideaway's this way; there's some house out there but it's hidden._

Tinkerbell nodded. "Yeah, that's his." It wasn't really his, he'd just adopted it; he'd built it for Wendy a long while ago and when she'd stopped visiting, it'd become his home when he wasn't allowed to the Tree.

Tinkerbell followed Terence, moving along with him, following the Light closely. She tried to blink the dots that shone in her mind's eye with it being so Dark and, as she walked, her foot nudged something. She bent down and picked it from the ground; a bloodied knife, its leather grip ridged with Crocidile bite marks. She shuddered, replaced it to her side sheath, and continued after Terence, her hand to its hilt; he stopped and observed the house from afar before turning to Tinkerbell, who took a breath, a rather shaky one at that. _You alright?_

"I don't know, Terence," Tinkerbell said, shrugging. "We'll see, I guess."

_... Do you think he even remembers? You're probably just overreacting, Tink._

Tinkerbell narrowed her eyes at the Lit form that was Terence; she raised an eyebrow and he chuckled. _At least when you're mad like this, you're face doesn't turn red._

"Oh, but it can," Tinkerebell said, completely having switched gears in emotion. "Look, let's just ... go."

Terence nodded, perching once again on her shoulder. _Alright. _He placed a hand on her shoulder, gave her a pinch. _I'm right here._

Tinkerbell nodded before she took a steeling breath; she took a step forward and another until she was at the door, her fist up to knock. Tinkerebell didn't knock, though, no; she didn't need to be welcomed in, she didn't _want _Peter to welcome her in. She'd rather she barge in and see him, for the first time again.

So, she did; she threw the door wide open and didn't see what she expected to see. She would've thought Peter would be there alone. Instead, many of his Boys were there, all of them fighting, swords clashing, and Tinkerbell looked around, bewildered. Terence floated up to Tink's ear, wanting to shout to her to be heard over the noise, but instead his hands clasped around a strand of hair as she turned her head to the adults she'd met long ago, requesting to destroy Pan to get their son back.

Here they were, fighting not with him, not against him, but against _each other. _It didn't even seem that way; they weren't going for fatal blows, just enough to nick, to be sore the next morning. And there, in the center of it all, was Peter, her Peter, surveying it all, observing, critiquing.

Peter was different, she knew; with him being so far from her for so long, he'd learned to take care of himself. He was a Leader without her, and granted, he always had been, he just had no one to follow him. Here, there was no doubt in her mind that he was Neverland's last hope, no matter how Dark his heart had become; Tink's eyes flicked, catching his eye to a Boy, another Boy, in a plaid shirt with a soft smile and a Heart that simply _radiated _belief, belief in Peter, in Neverland.

Terence gasped, turning his head to look Tinkerbell in the eye. _Tink! It's true! The prochecy!_ Terence turned his wide eyes to Peter and the Boy he shared his smile with. _'Two Kings shall rein the Land, hand-in-hand - '_

"'They shall stand,'" Tinkerbell recited, eyes wide, a smile taking hold of her lips.

Peter, from across the room, looked away from Henry's face, from his smile, his brow furrowing. Looking to Henry, his eyebrow knit in confusion, Peter turned his head, his line of vision, to the door, where he could've sworn he'd heard _words_, tinkling along the echo of bells, and that's when his eyes caught Tinkerbell in the doorway, a flicker of golden light caught in her hair.

Peter froze, his heart near stopped, and everyone turned silent, stopped fighting; they could feel it, the room turn colder despite the fire, which sputtered now, and they cast their gaze between Peter and the girl - the woman - in the door.

Peter blinked, licked his lips. "Tink."

She looked up, met Peter's gaze. She smiled faintly. "Peter."

Peter surged forward then, not a moment of hesitation, the Boys jumping from his way; he raced at Tinkerbell and jumped at her, wrapping her in a hug. Tinkerbell's eyes widened and she let out a laugh, her hand finding itself tangled in Peter's hair as she held him close; after a long moment, Peter stepped back. "I take it you didn't forget, then?" She asked, smiling.

"No," Peter said, shaking his head; his hands fell at his sides and he smiled, though it seemed pained, forced. His eyes fogged, clouded, darted to his feet. "How long has it been?" He asked.

"A few decades at most," Tink said, guiltily.

"Well, I missed you," Peter said, looking to his hands. "A-and I'm ... sorry, for whatever I did. You know."

Tinkerbell nodded, not sure of what to do, how to react. He really _didn't _know. And, how could she expect him to? He wasn't considered a part of the Fairies; he was just _there _to them. He was their main objective, to protect at all and any costs; to protect for themselves, for Neverland, for their existence. They weren't there _for _Peter and they never had been. Tinkerbell had changed that and nobody, especially the Council, liked a rogue Fairy. Especially one without a care toward Fairy Laws.

Peter glanced to his Boys, nodding to them to come up and stand with him. They all looked to Tink with eager eyes and Peter held out a hand to Henry, pulling him up beside him. "Everyone," Peter said, "this is Tinkerbell."

The Boys all whispered in awe and Henry stared at Tinkerbell, entranced. He glanced to Peter and Peter grinned, his fingers still caught between Henry's. "She's a - "

"FAIRY!" Nibs shouted, pointing to Tink.

"Well, yeah," Peter said. "Obviously - "

"No! Peter, look!" Thomas shouted, pointing to the ball of golden Light.

Peter watched his Boys launch for it, breaking formation, and Peter had to remind himself that he'd broken character first. They all ran after the Light, which did the foolish thing and darted inside; though the room was lit enough that it wouldn't be as easy to see than out in the Dark, so perhaps it hadn't been foolish, but Peter saw it as foolish. Just to spite the Fairy, Peter released Henry's hand to jump after his Boys; Peter jumped ahead of them until he was Leading. Soon enough, Peter had leapt from the stone table and his hands had clasped around the Fairy; he would've fallen on his head, had the Dust off the Fairy not done a right job of messing his hand full of golden Pixie Dust.

Laughing, Peter was off the ground, suspended in mid-air, peeking his hands open to look at the Fairy that was spurting off and on in his hand. Tinkerbell, already at home, decided she'd had enough and shouted, in a rather scolding tone, "Peter. Let him go."

"It's a him, is he?" Peter asked, looking to her, upside-down. He smiled and peeked his fingers apart, letting the golden light (that was turning redder by the minute) paint his face. Peter looked at him curiously until finally, he opened his hands and released the Fairy. Instead of zipping away as Fairies usually did when Peter played with them, this one came close to his face and, while wagging a finger Peter could barely even see, gave him a right scolding that Peter merely laughed at, saying, "Well, it's nice to see you again, too, Terence."

Terence huffed, his Light flickering red-hot before turning a fond gold as he uncrossed his arms and shook Peter's finger that he held out. _I'd like it much better if our meetings didn't start with you manhandling me._

"Yeah, well, and I'd like it much if our meetings didn't start with you flying in here like you own the place," Peter said, a humour in his tone, his eyes glittering good-naturedly. "And, just _look _at this mess you've made!"

_You sound like a Mother, Peter._

"I do not!" Peter countered, looking at the mess of Dust that was all over him and his clothes. Chairs and Lost things began to soar as well and Peter groaned before throwing his bent arms behind his head, to which he kicked, flying over the heads of the awe-struck Boys.

"Peter ... You're flying!" Curly shouted.

"Isn't that a bit obvious?" Peter asked, raising an eyebrow.

"No, Peter," Thomas said, grinning, "You're _flying_. You _believe._"

Peter swooped down close to Thomas. "Who said I didn't believe? Who said? I'll gut them."

"Of course you will, Peter," Tinkerbell said, rolling her eyes; she had a mind to know what Thomas meant. "Peter ... You've got happy thoughts again."

"Happy thoughts," Peter mused before he grinned and let out a rousing crow. "Oh, happy thoughts! Lovely thoughts!" Swooping down, he lifted one of the Boys from the ground and twirled him in the air. "Happy thoughts again!" Peter's smile fading when he looked to the Boys' face, to the knife in his hands. He began to float down from the air and his face fell along with it until his feet grazed the ground and he placed the Boy back down. Peter turned, looking to Tink. "Do you know?" He asked.

"About what?" Tinkerbell asked, glancing to the adults; they were really the only ones she'd had contact with while she was hiding away and they seemed the only ones to tell her without Peter doing so.

"About the War," Peter said, his hands limp at his sides, his feet back on the ground, a deflated look to him as his shoulders slumped. His hair still glittered with Dust yet his shoulders seemed to hold a weight he couldn't lift; Peter, Tinkerbell realised, was trapped, grounded by the pressing matters around him. "That is why you showed, isn't it? Why you came back?"

Tinkerbell looked to her feet, suddenly _very _thankful Peter didn't remember why she had been forced to leave him. No matter the amount of Fairy Laws she'd broken, there was one universal Law even she couldn't evade; and that was Banishment, and all its strings attached. Alas, Banishment only went as far as Peter's memory. As long as he didn't know he'd Banished Tinkerbell, there was no reason for her not to be allowed to stay. She glanced to Peter, almost taken aback by his other questions; she'd been so concerned of herself that she hadn't thought about his other topics of conversation.

"War?" She asked, her brow knitting.

"Yes," Peter said, and at once, Tinkerbell understood the darkened eyes, the bruised lip, the paled skin, the defeated slope of his shoulders and the look on his face, deep in his eyes. He was scared, terrified, but he had no idea why. "Felix ... He ... Well, not _him_, I don't know - "

Tinkerbell's eyes widened and she started forward. "_Felix_? I just spoke to Felix! He said - " Her words caught in her throat and it dawned on her, the pieces matched and continued to match. "Oh, god ... "

"What'd he say?" Peter's expression grew hard, a snarl curling his lip. Tinkerbell looked to his face, to his eyes, that sparked with an electricity that she could practically _see _the storm brewing inside of him; in fact, she could feel it, hear it ... The wind howled behind her and Tinkerbell whipped her head around, jumping back from the door as it slammed.

Peter, unaware of what he was doing, came forward, asking, _spitting_, "What did he say, Tink?"

Looking to his face, Tinkerbell pursed her lips. "Peter, if I'm going to tell you, I need you to take a breath and calm down."

Peter raised his eyebrows, held his arms out. "I most certainly _am _calm, Tink, I simply _radiate _calm right now - " The storm outside grew stronger, the rain coming down in thick sheets, " - now _tell me what he said._"

Tinkerbell shook her head; whether her stubborness was foolish or wise, you can be the judge fore Peter, always Peter, thought it was stupid on her part, she was holding back information, _why wouldn't she tell him_, and without knowing it, his eyes sparked again, the white lights strobing in his darkened irises and he said, in a rather dangerous tone, one that caused Tinkerbell's heart to cease beating for an excruciatingly long moment, "Tink, _tell me_."

Tinkerbell's mind tried to take her back to a different time, to a Lighter Peter, to when his voice was full of hurt and need; it was full of the same desperation as of now and before Tinkerbell could become stuck in the Past, she looked the animal in its stormy eyes and watched as a hand, fingers, found their way around Peter's own, tugged his eyes from the sparking grey clouds, until he glanced to the hand, to the face of the Boy, the Boy from the prochecy, and his face regained colour, lit, for a fleeting moment and he was lifted from the ground a few centimeters before he turned back to face Tinkerbell, his feet finding the ground again.

Taking a deep breath, the rain outside dripped to a low patter just as Peter looked to Tink's face with eyes amiss their sparks, but just as many clouds. "Fine. I'm calm," He sighed, looking to Henry's hand; he closed his eyes painfully and received a squeeze, a slight one, since Peter was strangling Henry's hand until it was white. "I'm ... calm. Tell me."

"He ... He was outside my Tree," She began, a bit Lost for words now that she was being asked, "at least I _thought _he was outside of it since the rest of the Boys were - "

" - Rest of the Boys?" Peter asked, thinking back to the Staked Boys whom had circled around him his last night in camp.

" - Yes," She sighed, shoulders falling a bit, "they had two others with them - two girls - one of them was screaming, like ... Like a Bird. The other was otherwise docile."

Peter nodded. "We know about them, I'm supposed to rescue them, some sort of trade - "

" - Not just some _sort _of trade," Neal interuppted, giving Peter a rather sharp look. Peter looked to him, about to retort that Neal was in no way a part of their conversation, when Ted said, moving his hands in the mimic of a bird's wings, "The Wendy Bird, is it? The Wendy and Tiger Lily."

Tinkerbell glanced to the Light that was Terence; his Light had gone from gold to a rather dank shade of grey in a matter of seconds. _Wait, wait, a trade? _He asked, turning to Peter.

"Yeah, I'll probably head tomorrow on that," Peter said, his eyebrow knitting; his thumb rubbed over Henry's knuckles, unaware of his fingers' actions, his mind too set on the matter at hand. He looked back up, ducking his head slightly to look at Tink past Terence's rather obnoxious Light. "You were saying?"

Terence's Light sparked and he came close to Peter's face, arms out in exasperation. _I'm still here, you know!_

"I do know and you're positively annoying," Peter told Terence, looking over his small acorn hat to Tinkerbell's blue eyes.

"He said," She began just as Terence shouted, _Just because I'm _small _does not mean you can belittle me!_

Peter looked to the Fairy before he raised an eyebrow. "But you are small," Peter said, lifting a hand, "and so I can do this." Peter swatted the Fairy out of the way and looked to Tinkerbell expectantly. "Go on."

Taking a deep breath, Tinkerbell rushed the words out because she was afraid she would be interuppted again and the words were about to explode inside of her and she couldn't hold them in, not any longer, and so, in a flush of breath, Tinkerbell said, "He said he's come to take what's rightfully his." Terence, whom had ceased in his spinning fit from Peter's flick, looked at Tink and shook his head. _You could've let that down a tiny bit easier, Tink. Just saying._

Peter's eyes locked on Tink's, his fingers tightening on Henry's hand. That sounded familiar, it rung a bell in his mind until it emitted warning chimes so loud Peter's head nearly spun; it terrified him completely, down to his core, but he couldn't recall, he didn't remember anything but those words. He'd heard them plenty of times, a million times, from the words of men with greedy hearts, a Father with a lust for Youth, and the mouth of someone he'd thought was there soley for him, who had taken him from danger to keep him out of War, not to throw him into another.

Peter came back around when Henry made a little noise at his side and Peter released his hand, glancing to Henry's, not having noticed the pressure he'd been inflicting. Peter glanced to Henry's face apologetically before looking to Tinkerbell, knowing everyone was expecting a reaction - _something _out of him - and yet, here he stood, frozen. "That doesn't sound like Felix," He finally said though his mind screamed every other thing because this was too obvious, what he was saying, and he _knew _it was but he was afraid to say anything else and to be wrong.

" ... That's the thing, Peter, it didn't _sound _like Felix then either. His voice ... It wasn't his. It wasn't his," Tinkerbell said, shaking her head. "It couldn't be. Peter, he's your _second-in command. _He wouldn't - he just wouldn't - "

" - Well, he did," Peter said, sharply. "He betrayed me. And he _isn't _my second-in command anymore."

Tinkerbell looked to Peter's eyes and she knew he couldn't remember all of his other betrayals, he couldn't remember his past second-in commands. There were so many that they were sure to tally up; he should've known, should've been aware, and yet, he _didn't_ know, didn't remember. Despite her efforts, he was back in the Dark; she'd Lost everything for nothing.

No. She'd Lost everything for Peter and she had been completely fine with it. Until now; until now, it mattered and it hadn't before.

"What did he do?" Tink asked, quietly. Terence's Light flashed grey and he perched on Tink's shoulder, whispered to her in his quietest voice, _No, Tink, don't -_

Peter's tongue flicked over his lips and he closed his eyes tightly for a long drawn-out moment before shaking his head. "I can't tell you."

Tinkerbell ignored Terence's better judgement; Peter used to be able to tell her anything. "Of course you can."

"No," Peter said, tightly, "Tink. _I can't_ _tell you_." The desperation in Peter's voice caused his words to crack apart until they were tinkling shards, broken pieces, unspoken pain given a voice, and Peter didn't understand what it meant to be betrayed even if he had felt it happen to him more than it ever had an adult.

He may've been innocent but his Heart wasn't.

...

Peter's birthday was forgotten. In fact, for years to come, Peter had deliberately made up a new birthday so as not to remember. And yet, despite his best efforts, Peter was forced to remember every night, with dreams of raging waves and a ship flung under the sea during a storm, an island of survivors, Natives, Beasts and Fairies; he would wake up screaming, sobbing, and his brother would run in because his Mother couldn't hear Peter's screams over her own. Holding Peter, Benny would ask him what his dream was of and Peter would say, tears in eyes, his throat tight, and he would tell Benny and Benny would sit and listen until it became too much to bear and he _had_ to leave so he would reignite the night-lights that had blown out with Peter's cries and reshut the window that had been flung open and Benny reassured him that it was all just make-believe and he was fine, nothing could get him here.

His brother's reassurances may've sounded strong at first but when he left and could no longer keep them at the front of Peter's mind, Peter began to wander. His mind began to see what was really there, what was put off as make-believe. His shadow sat at his bed, moved to the wall, beside the flickering of his night-light and he looked to it, reached out for it, and it moved to the window, beckoned for him.

Peter followed it and sat at the window, glanced behind him before he pulled the window up and open. "What is it?" He whispered.

_Look_, it pointed out the window to the stars. _There. Do you see it?_

Peter looked and gazed at the constellations. His eyes caught the glimmer, the flicker, the wink of the brightest of the stars. "I think so. The bright one?"

_Yes. It shines bright for those who belong there, you know. _You _belong there, Peter. _The shadow turned its blank eyes to face Peter and Peter looked out at the star, at its blinking form, his hands beneath his chin to hold him upright, his feet kicking up and down behind him.

"Is it like my dream?" Peter asked, glancing sideways at his shadow.

_Yes, quite. It's everything you've ever dreamt of, Peter, and better. You've created it, _The shadow looked to Peter and glanced back to the star. _Would you like to go there?_

Peter sighed. "I don't know. It's quite scary in dreams. Are there night-lights there?"

_So many night-lights, Peter._

"Are there Mothers there? Brothers? ... Fathers?'"

_There are no grown-ups, Peter, not if you go now. _

"Who will tell me stories then?"

_You can create your own stories, Peter; go on adventures every day._

"That sounds wonderful," Peter said, but he glanced over his shoulder; he could hear his brother slam his fists through the wall, bloody his knuckles. Peter bit his lip, chewed on it. "I don't think I can go now, though. Benny and Mother need me."

His shadow's head snapped toward Peter. _Peter, they don't need you, they don't want you. Neverland needs you._

Peter turned to his shadow and smiled. "Neverland? Is that what it's called?"

_Yes, you named it._

"After Father's ship," Peter said, smiling, leaning his cheek down on his elbows, eyes fluttering shut. "The _Never Land_."

The shadow looked to the sleeping form of Peter then to the star; it blinked before it blazed like a beacon in the night, and all the other Stars flickered with it, blinking along to the tune of pipe song that floated through the air and transported Peter to Neverland; but not the way the shadow should've. Peter went by dream and by dream, Peter would have to leave.

He played and adventured and flew with the Birds; he hopped off of cliffs, dove under waves, laughed and laughed and laughed for the less than happier days he'd had. He made up for those by make-believing things better; until he was called away by his brother's voice.

"_Peter_! What are you _doing_?!"

Peter turned away from the circle of Fairies around him as he turned his face to the rising sun in Neverland; an indention between Peter's eyebrows appeared and he looked up, confused. "Benny?"

A hand clutched Peter's shoulder, whipped him around, and Peter was no longer in Neverland, but he could hear the Fairies' calls for him from the blinking star amid the constellations enlaid in the sky; his brother had lifted him from the floor where he'd been sleeping, both hands newly bandaged but blushed fiery red near the knuckles, and he shook Peter, anger and fear glowing in his eyes. "Peter, _what _have I told you about this window?"

Peter glanced to his bare feet, wiggled his toes anxiously, unaccustomed to the cool boards of wood in contrast to the warm blistering sand of the shores of Neverland; he said, glancing up at his brother through his bangs, " ... To keep it shut."

"And, why is it - " Benny released Peter's shoulders to slam the window down so hard the noise caused Peter to jump, " - that every time I tell you that, you open it?"

Peter could've lied to his brother, said it was stuffy in his room or his blankets were too heavy on him or even he was too restless to sleep. Instead, Peter said, "But I didn't open it, Benny. He did," and he pointed to the darkest corner of his room.

Benny followed Peter's finger and sighed when he looked to the corner. "Peter, I've told you - it's not real."

"You tell him that," Peter mumbled as his brother turned back to him. He took in Peter's appearance; the scratches on his arms and legs, the dirt behind his ears, the last of the paint that had been coated on his face and upper arms.

"What is that?" Benny asked, pointing to the painted markings. Peter glanced to them, shrugging.

"It's war paint," Peter said, smiling, eyebrows high and eyes eager. "Me and the natives played a game - "

"Peter, not this again - "

" - But, we did," Peter said as Benny ran a bandaged hand through his hair tiredly. "It was them against me, which I suppose isn't very fair for them, since I know where everything is. I beat them, of course, and then we went back to their camp and - "

" - _Peter,_" Benny interuppted. "_Please._"

Peter blinked as Benny grabbed Peter's hand, tugged him along to the washroom where Benny grabbed a cloth, ran it under the water, folded it with his bare fingers that shook, and he placed the wet cloth to Peter's face, washed away the paint, the dirt, the memory of the place he went when he dreamt.

"Is Mother up?" Peter asked.

" ... Yes," Benny said after a moment of hesitation. "I don't want you to go to her, though. The doctors are coming in today to speak with her while I'm away."

"Away where?" Peter asked, trying to meet his brother's gaze which Benny avoided expertly.

"I told you," Benny said, wetting a new cloth to place over Peter's scratches. "I'm going away by the King's order; one of Father's friends requested me to the calvary."

"Calvary," Peter said, wrinkling his nose.

"Yes, the _King's _calvary," Benny said. "You know what that means."

"Extra rations," They both said together, sharing a rare smile. Benny's brow then furrowed and he said, "While I'm away, I want you to make me a promise."

"What sort of promise?" Peter asked, going still.

"A pinky promise," and Benny held out his pinky.

Peter lifted his pinky slowly, swallowing hard.

"I want you to promise me you'll stay up in your room when the doctors come," Benny said. "You won't talk to them; you don't even have to answer the door. You just stay in your room and leave only for food and to wash, alright?"

Peter's brow dipped. "Why?"

"It doesn't matter why," Benny said, wringing his pinky with his brother's before taking his hand to lead him back to his room. He tucked him back in his bed, relit the night-lights, and gave Peter a pointed look. "And _do not _open that window. Do you understand me?"

"Yes," Peter replied, used to Benny's sterness; he'd told Peter plenty of stories of little boys whom fell from stories-high windows but Peter hadn't believed them simply because they weren't interesting to him. "When are you leaving?"

"Not for a few days."

" ... You will come back, won't you?"

"Of course I will," Benny said, forcing a smile, sitting on the edge of Peter's bed. He gave Peter's hair a ruffle, his fingers latching to something in his hair. He tugged it and Peter winced, turning his head so that Benny could see the twisted tuff of hair braided around the quill of the feather. Benny stared at the eagle feather and twisted in his fingers, disbelief in his eyes.

"The Natives gave it to me," Peter said, watching Benny's face curiously; he smiled, grinned, before saying, "They call me Soaring Eagle." He puffed out his chest, holding his breath, glancing to Benny expectantly. He let out his breath after a long while, asking, "Don't you like it?"

"Of course," Benny said and Peter turned his head so that Benny's fingers left the feather and braid alone. He sighed and tucked Peter back in before he stood, ran the bandage of his hand across his face. "I'm going to go downstairs. Just yell if you need anything."

Benny began to move for the door and the minute his back was turned, Peter could already see them, with their blank eyes and their fanged mouths. "Wait," Peter called and Benny stopped, sighed, and turned back around.

"What is it?"

"Could you ... Stay in here? With me?" Peter asked and Benny's first thought was _Aren't you a bit old for that, Peter_, but he didn't say that, instead he sighed and nodded, nudged Peter for him to scoot closer to the wall and pulled the blanket around the both of them. Peter smiled, whispered, "Thank you," before he curled into his older brother's side and Benny nodded, staring up at the ceiling and the flickering, darting shadows, his fingers once again at the feather in Peter's hair.

Benny had one of his worst sleeps and Peter had one of his best.

* * *

**oh my god this is so long**

**and the backstories unnnf feelings**

**I might not have school tomorrow because the winds will make it like -15**

**but my school sucks so they'll probably be like lol screw you you're still coming to school**

**so I'm conflicted I have done nothing in these two weeks of Break but write and cry because feelings**

**school's going to interfere like damn**

**BUT I will still post on Sundays and keep to the ouat schedule (depending on what school does to me)**

**You're all lovely and wonderful and I want to thank you all for tHE 133 REVIEWS, 57 FOLLOWS, AND 41 FAVOURITES LIKE HOLY WOW I LOVE YOU GUYS AND ADORE YOU ALL TO DEATH. **


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